It's so plain and obvious The desire and intrigue of you laced with powder Like a open book
Pins in and on the stomach like sacrifice Evidence caked under the finger nail Hands behind the back and remnants of Something full in my mouth and planted seed
Spilt Milk is a place where confessions go when they die. It's the place where the candles never get blown out. Where the stocking is worshiped and the heel of the foot is adored. The cradle of old flames and new tastings. This is my collection of erotica. Old, new and blue. Bon appetite.