Moist knuckles, crack in the breeze.
Finger, banging art.
“A Long Musk”
Let’s go down to that secret place.
That place where you can be who you want to be.
Who you are?
Where we can revel in the glory of attraction and anticipation.
Chest to breast.
Elbows, lips, pliable flesh.
Pink, purple, red, mocha.
Salt kisses, fingers submerged.
Dainty fingertips gliding along the periphery.
Sweat, warm wetness.
Connected solely through electric fingertips.
Fingerprints intermingle, DNA altered.
Traveling towards the event horizon, no reset.
Waves, waves, waves.
Hushed encouragements increase the urgency.
Swollen to a point of burst.
A civilization in its ascendency and decline, in one moment.
Palms slapping the top sheet.
Final advances assured.
No stopping the launch sequence.
Traveling up into and becoming one with the atmosphere.
Eventually escaping gravity, and floating.
A sweet reverie, wrapped in languid limbs and surrendered kisses.
An expanding universe that ends and begins in the loins of lovers searching for meaning.
“I much prefer a wet blanket to a moist bandaid.”_Thus spoke Ghostnutstra_11_15_27