**** me like the ocean would the moon, Dear Amaranthine. Teach me as you would any abecedarian, slow with pace. My pallid arms are spread, and feet are crossed. Crucify me, like one of your French girls.
Your endless frame arched over mine a vaulting testament to the heat of your front against my back. This scene should have been a chapel.
Through hazed musk I can taste the saline as it tumbles from your dripping brunette tendrils forming brooks and lagoons the color of flesh in the glens and about the islands of my spine.
I wish I could write about you in me while you dance a contemporary beat ceaseless, indeterminate, untold are your feats within and upon my person.
For a split moment, seconds shattered in two, I am completely and totally permeated by you. I whine for you to vacillate me, I am ******* begging to be occupied, satiated, by a rhythm akin to the sway of trees.
Love me fast and kiss me slow, Dear Amaranthine. My palms are red, and feet bloodied, too. I moan. Call me your poetaster but don't come on my chest; There's far too much weight there already, my dear.