tender meaty almond resting on the center depression of my tounge.
Your language licks the bowl of my head clean
until I am empty and
diffuse with longing.
The sharing is
over too soon.
I swallow the story
in one perfect act of literary consumption.
My fingers seated into my own flesh
sticky, hot and wet,
the delicate muscles quiver and pulse.
With a shiver I roll over in the bed
open to what I have read,
a whore to your language.
I am lustful for more artful phrases,
relishing your shocking outbursts.
I play the word cunt across my lips,
rest on my belly,
and breath in the scent of my own desire lingering in the bedding.
For just a few moments
You are as deep and wet as a river.
My heartbeat, steady around my own fingers, is my only tether.