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Moon drags her silver stylus—waves engrave sand.
Our bodies, hourglass, ride its sand.
Hungry tides carve sand.
Sighs press our secrets in the sand
Tidal pools whisper vows in sand,
then retreating waves unwrite sand.

Our love, rewritten as sand.
Dawn erases nothing.
Spring's chill morning, bald eagle's wingspan wide,
Whistling wind through wings —- hushed secret sigh.
Her gaze, a steel talon, grips my soul inside,
Reminding me of ashes of oblivion, now soaring in time.
Love will lift us stronger, future clouds where we'll glide.
On my run today, a bald eagle flew within 10 meters of me.  I heard the wind whistle through her wings.
Her lips, now draw so near mine—
static hums,
lightning sings,
my fingertips zing.

Our breath suspends in flight,
threads pulled oh so tight;
My hunger coils—
her taste, pure starlight.

Our flesh enraptures,
trembles nearly bare—
a storm unfolds,
surging ever slowly— there.
Unbuttoned allure, yet captivated - my eyes.
Skirt’s whispered secrets, eclipsed - my eyes.
Glances try undress, but locked - my eyes.
Lashes dance, words unspoken behind my eyes. 
Storm in your veins, tethered   - my eyes.
Your body, wealth, surrendered - my eyes.
A whispered caress in the dark, hinting at forgotten secrets, smoldering desires,
Moonlight breathes clues of their longing, finding shadows of unfulfilled desires,
Fingertips trace cryptic messages, lovers' code igniting searing desires,
Hearts pulsing in matching rhythms, unleashing raw, consuming desires.
The wind, a sly lover, lifting my silken dress,
I sway with abandon, revealing soft tenderness,
Wind, with lips so eager, tracing each subtle finesse,
With each rising current, my heated blush will express,
I surrender to breezes that stir my wild restlessness.
Her leaving, a bang of lightning striking a tree,
Exposing my raw soul for the world to see.
She was a burst of color in my monochrome world,
A single, vibrant flower, blooming while storms swirled.
My dam shatters; torrents of emotions drown me.
Naked, she stands,  
eyes fixed, lips raised toward sky—  
What if I’d taken the red-eye?  

Blood rushes, falls;  
knees meet ground, no bed at all.  

She glides,  a velvet chain,  
tongue where sweet honey rains.  

Her scent fills air’s swell—  
my soul under spell.
No one explained that best before

was subjective at best.

Instead they suggested

that you were lucky to find a man

willing to settle for spoiled produce

so close to the sell by date.



Did it occur to you

the rot might be them?

— The End —