Our moon slips red—eclipse’s ****** shadow cups her breast.
She lies still, a fawn, beneath my tear-brimmed eyes.
Her breath—dream’s morning dew?—a whispered request?
Light turns slowly, touch between her parted thighs.
She moans a whispered song—arching, “come to me.”
Jul 16, 2025
Jul 16, 2025 at 6:21 PM UTC
Our moon slips red—eclipse’s ****** shadow cups her breast.
She lies still, a fawn, beneath my tear-brimmed eyes.
Her breath—dream’s morning dew?—a whispered request?
Light turns slowly, touch between her parted thighs.
She moans a whispered song—arching, “come to me.”
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