Exotic delicacies tremble from my lips,
My tongue stems silken threads that develop into satin
contracts.
Supple oceans of heat agitate my mind,
Where fingers weave together filaments of spider webs
To form for you a corral of ink of black and gray.
The words you will write may not be set in stone.
Yet still my eyes present to you the world,
In the midst of all chaos I catch your attention.
Through smoke and flames you appear to me with a needle upon
your tongue.
In transit I descend into the depths and fall to threads of
cotton and gold.
Your mouth produces a liquid that feels like water and
reminds my skin of what it once was.
And you sew together the ligaments of my soul,
Piecing together forgotten memories and things that are
foretold,
And with a heart of lush silken thread,
It melts in your palms.
Written perfection.
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