Jan 2022
Blossoming cheeks;
sweet flower kisses,
and butterfly hints,
of wings flaring careless words on lips.
The space of heaven;
between those two stars,
of both day and night,
And with devilish thick
structured thighs;
there's a resting lust in between.
None of which,
I dare open the gates as wide.
Bare chest; full of development,
and a warmth to my resting head.
Fast asleep on the pillows;
and silk smooth skin, as matching sheets.
Bellowing down the centre;
to a circle within a circle.
As with the precious silver of a belly ring.
Dark as the night without stars;
flowing downstream; is her fine hair.
Covering a neck of amber;
scented in perfumes of a spring's desire.
And a shape biteable by first eyes;
as with the passions of a bodied pear.
Towards a great sized past;
and truly a large behind.
A middle line of strong metal,
as love's swordlike spine.
Tanned leather,
running young of two calves.
And the heels that strut the purest intentions;
of the feet of doves.
Perfect is a stranger;
but still a stranger on their own.
Never to have met,
perhaps of my descriptions,
the individual would show.
sweet flower kisses,
and butterfly hints,
of wings flaring careless words on lips.
The space of heaven;
between those two stars,
of both day and night,
And with devilish thick
structured thighs;
there's a resting lust in between.
None of which,
I dare open the gates as wide.
Bare chest; full of development,
and a warmth to my resting head.
Fast asleep on the pillows;
and silk smooth skin, as matching sheets.
Bellowing down the centre;
to a circle within a circle.
As with the precious silver of a belly ring.
Dark as the night without stars;
flowing downstream; is her fine hair.
Covering a neck of amber;
scented in perfumes of a spring's desire.
And a shape biteable by first eyes;
as with the passions of a bodied pear.
Towards a great sized past;
and truly a large behind.
A middle line of strong metal,
as love's swordlike spine.
Tanned leather,
running young of two calves.
And the heels that strut the purest intentions;
of the feet of doves.
Perfect is a stranger;
but still a stranger on their own.
Never to have met,
perhaps of my descriptions,
the individual would show.
