You sit on one side of the room I sit on the other side of the room You got your hands deep in the existing static My hands folded under the knees and my mind racing Now and then put on pause
The mind flashes me a card Then takes it away I am baited for more and have become the master Of waiting For more
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
Midnight basking in the light pathway Your nape a nesting ground to later swallow The curl of fingers and toes folded 9 years in the making Ritualistic assurance
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.