I. can I capture you, interested at being here, on this line or this one? it’s critical you remain, rapt, to phonetic formation revealing romanticism, and not become distracted by clever breaks, syntax lapse, or subject adjustment. Focus. II. you can’t focus chromatic time. it streaks the picture capturing her bedroom hunger lunging out two viridian eyes. seriously… she's giggling just thinking about it, visualizing virtuosity… this prowling panther pixie. this sleek, little lotus blossom crawling closer, closing in, toned for athletic activity and smiling oh so fucking wickedly alright, alright… get ready get set go III. dynamite describes the passionate pant of sultry breath she shivers out, into my ear, that causes combined convulsions, and allows a fleeting foretaste of perfect, azure nirvana. I’ll linger in her lively spice awhile edge my fingers between peppered freckles marveling at the slick trail fashioned by those faint, almost invisible hairs. we’ve nixed reality, annulled our position, forgotten all but this recent, blooming event. there is no tomorrow beyond these pillows, it’s just her and I, entwined; content.
