the inside of a woman's ****** is full of verses that you'll forget your name. stop telling me that woman's fallopian tube is only the meeting place of a ***** and an egg cell because metaphors and punctuations develop there to create pulchritudinous metrical-composition.
the moans and groans implanted on each other's ears will create proses and poetry, the handprints on the wall, the clothes you both threw on the floor, and the smiles and giggles you threw up create poetry that only you and your lover can read.
𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗽 𝘁𝗲𝗹𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗺𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗮 𝘄𝗼𝗺𝗮𝗻 𝗶𝘀𝗻'𝘁 𝗮 𝗽𝗼𝗲𝘁𝗿𝘆.
[ the space between her thigh the gap between her teeth the veins on her arms the marks on her belly the darkness of her brows and the bristle on her armpits i'm telling you that these are parts of poetry ]
small letters are intended. readers' discretion is advised.