NO. REALLY. MAKING. LOVE.

Sometimes I stare at your picture and imagine making love. No. Really. Making. Love. With our bodies n souls intertwined as one pulse. With the blood of our viens seeping into each other’s hearts, bleeding. Raw. Real. Passionate. Pure. Love. I see sweat pouring from the corners of our minds, overflowing into Grails of Holy Water laid at our feet. I feel you sink beneath my cave in tsunamis of motion n waves of heat. I can feel the snakes in our spines weave a bed for us to lay our bodies down into sparks n tornadoes of fire. I hear music played in harmony with our tongues as they catch on one another’s words. Melting. Sweet. Hot. Words. I grasp your hair, pulling your head in for a closer view of the valleys of my neck, nestling you just so … in between. I dive into your eyes as you are swallowed whole by my own. I feel your soul beat. I feel mine plucking strings on your heart. I watch as our breath evaporates into thin air, laden in between the weight of bliss and presence. Our flesh becomes one through sifted light and melting hearts. Sometimes I stare at your picture and imagine making love. No. Really. Making. Love.

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