Her legs are incendiary.
Though I travel 100 miles,
Dragging the point of myself
Through broken glass,
She watches my natural fullness like
A leopard a pattern in the grass.
Hunt my beastful blush,
Lick the harmony of my breasts.
What can she sing with her lips
Pursed in kiss?
Her waist the willfulness of tornadoes,
Her soft belly bread
Baked in the Parisian dawn.
It is the ritual of her hands hunting me,
The reminds me that pleasure rhymes
With guilt.
Miniature Moon 