Bed rights

For the rituals of your orgasms. All things high above, Most High. your thighs like this climate change. I’ve felt your pulse across cities and continents. I know what your lust sounds like. And you know mine. I’ve found your hair to be rather durable. Rather helpful. And the bite marks across my chest, in the shapes of the country your mother and father were born, raised and formed. I haven’t seen architecture too impressive. Nothing like how you arch your back and fold yourself in, out like origami. And the voice when you give direction. You go through the foliage of my hair like scavengers. Lock my head between the Euphrates of your thighs, I wouldn’t leave till I’ve brought you to your Holy moment. Your water dripping from my beard, it’s better than leave in conditioner. Love it when you don’t shave, keep that however you want it though. Whether we cuddle, or toil in the fields. I have found your moans like orchestra. Like symphonies and Spanish ballads. It’s the Puebla in your blood after all. I could taste your culture in every bit of you. And you’ve tasted mine. I know you’ve heard the blessings I’ve spoken unto to you. Through you. In you. It’s the taste of you. The smell of you. It’s all of you. It’s you. To be plain. Hands cupped like meditation, this has been the sweetest euphoria your rhythm in breath. The energy of your release. Like you’ve been holding yourself in for centuries. Flower petals across your sternum. Tongue down the trail of your neck and spine. In all the wonders of living. You have been the grandest. Yoga has done you well. It’s done us well. Cirque du Soleil. All of me. All of you. Like mathematics. This is just an honor. Discovery through your spots, hopscotch and double Dutch in and out of your spots. 

Tell next time! 


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