bottles, senses, pages

there is nothing more in this world i love
than to write poetry;
i never tire of gently following your hands with
my fingers down your arm and stroking your
hip with an ink that demands to run, and run
shall my nose from the ground of your toe up
the shafts of your legs prancing in stances like
the long limbs of a horse, let my words flow across
your back, breasts and like wine, complete intoxicating
red passion, lose myself into your neck
uncovering your secrets as fragrances
filling bottles, senses
pages.

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