Soft sussurations in the Darkness of O/our minds
whimpers ~ groans ~ screams
Silent movement of air
sounds that fill the Stygian Blackness
~Did I raise those lines,are they welts?
crimson flows gently
as My hand traces loving designs on the
alabster canvas of her form.
Looking at her I wonder
Is My love enshrined in her belly, the swell
of her mons
Or is it the svelte lines of her spine
What they may be:
I shall be a monet or a picasso.
Nay no broad strokes for This One
A sculpture of love.
Licking along the lines oozing
as she lays there