Map Your Tattoos

Wrap it around your neck. Unomfortably close, like a drunk admirer. Shamelessly tight, like Venice Beach. Subversively flamboyant in all the right ways.

I map your tattoos. I eat your tan lines. I know your limits.
Push. Hard. Right. There.
A cup full of cold moon light, spilt across your bare back. The length of you ripples along my touch.

I’m already in. Eye contact granted. Let’s both just disappear for a while. Where they least expect it.

 

image by unkown

 

 

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