Erotic PoetryBondsSome call fucking "making love",
But to make is to take,
To plant your flag in someone's soul,
And feel their body quake.
Clothes are flung,
Juices gush,
To own a heart,
With just one touch.
Though tomorrow, perhaps far away,
For tonight, with our Id's we'll play.
The "you" and the "I",
Knit up by gasps,
Can never fully sunder.
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