Tip of my tongue. Drop your nectar. It’s a well for you. To receive all of you. To ground you. It’s all I do. Is ground you. Toes dig through concrete when I kiss your neck. When I trace your spine with my fingertips. I learned sensual loving from sutras. Laid on beds and floors like tabernacle. I can read you in any language. Lay back. Relax. My hands under your thighs as I taste you. Fill you with holy words. I let my hair grow for you. Hold on like handle bars. I’m a scuba diver, hold breath like inanimate objects. Enter you like walking through churches. It’s holy land. I will wash my hands in your waters. My face in your waters. I have a particular lust. A particular trust for the process. I know your breathing. My hands against your throat, lips against yours. Breath. I got you. Flip you over like buttermilk pancakes. Arch your back St. Louis. Hands on the small of back, tie your wrist in your own garments. I like to taste of you. All of you. One hand wrapped in the jungle of your hair. One across your body, between your legs. This isn’t singular. Give me orders and I’ll follow. Yet, I know from how you look at me what you need. What you enjoy. And I have tendencies for pleasing every fiber of your being.