Thursday, September 23, 2004

fertile like the crescent

lips pushed into lips, on top of me, you're on top of me, and your tongue is my tongue. gyrating into me, hips against hips, in this cycle of pelvic religion and praise. and when your erection is pressed against my interior thigh, hot and anxious, i have found my faith.

knowing hands become roving hands become all knowing hands when these hands of yours slide over my breasts. and they are so practiced so skilled that they move with deathly precision over every nerve through the layers of cotton. there is clarity. it's soft swirling, whispering static. like we're at the movies and my nipples are your jujubes.

and when your being and my lower half collide, i will pretend like i do not fear the worst. that your lips on my lips/lips is all i want. that your trail of tongue and kisses down my stomach will work out. and it will when i am breathing so hard, loud enough to drown out the shakey kid who hasn't been going to church. it will when my nerves are exploding stars, and it's just your familiar, boyish hands on my hips finger tips up my thighs tongue in cheek in my second sacred heart.

give me a reason to get on these knees and pray.

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