I expect that a green and lace-sprayed victory, (thrown like a warmed and cedar-scented throw upon thy nakedness, consideration, yearning, and neural capacity)
Would be a Doukhabor shock of love to thee, standing salt stalwart, wanting.
I expect what I intend. I do what I am compelled to do. I shelter as I will, with instant and immediate lack of guile, accused of complicated sexuality; blamed for boredom; mocked for surface and facile vicissitude. I am none of these, of course. I am studied recourse, and depth, responding.
But....oh darling mouth, oh tousled fatigue....I am spark, unforgotten. I am reminder, and impetus, and breathless exercise and warmed and comforted adoration, sighing and dreaming.
Self-caged, I persist. Beaten down, I flicker, simmering; sprout, defiantly; think...decidedly.
Rave on. xo
