intimacies eyes, connecting random points with sinuous line layered against the warm urgency of your voice. A choice made in an infinite field of flowers where the criteria for being plucked like the string of a hand-carved harpsichord is intimate, and often, unfathomable. I am your chosen blossom, drink my fragrance and dance with me a dance of intimacies born of the nature of our species to find solace, in the shadow of another soul, from the pain of life and the stain that rises with the moon to toss us into dreamworlds without end, without friend. The curve of your heart fits well the cup formed by my hand, warmed on your soft breast, tested for sign of silent encouragement as we spent our last inhibitions in averted glances that lie as where our minds have already trespassed, burrowing beneath silk and cotton threads to find catharsis. copyright William F. DeVault (wfdv). |
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