A WREWRiTE

in the closure of his composure, he kindly suggests to her,

...try and reconsider the suching for searching for such sweet sarrows.

oh.

he rethinks.


the mix of bliss and blasphemy - such a heady combination,
such a heated pause.

that does her flavour rite.
it speaks to the me in her
to deep, deep,
spalunkilngly deep
down
the
shaft
of
the
mine of her mind.
it sinks into her there, trickles like trinkles through treacled stone beds of cerebraled curls, to rize up the welling channels of her fiberous being and toe out upon her skinly surface... touch her there. leaping letters upon the sprung living leather of her.

and now, i, having plucked about this for so many hours, i must go forth and do upon my day. laundry. sigh. ug. splat.


That's my favourite part; the part that speaks the most to me. I can feel it on my skin.