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it doesn’t take much…

it doesn't take much

It doesn’t take much for me to moan when I feel this slick from my soft that glistens on the inside of my softest of sweet thighs.

I sigh as my clothes lift and separate from my body.
I cum watching your blushing need rush straight to your head.

It doesn’t take much for my jaw to clench when my fingers trace your skin and for my lips – the ones I shaved mere hours ago for you – to begin to swell with dewy drip.

I moan and bite my lip, fingering myself for you.
I cum just thinking about you.

It doesn’t take much for my nipples to harden and my back to arch and my legs to spread and my ass to lift and my clit to fill and thrum and more moaning more more more I say in whispers, just like I breathlessly adore your name.

I gasp touching myself for you.
I cum remembering you.

Fuck.
I cum and cum and cum for you.

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follow the light…

my version is this
I have my version of this fancy.
It’s a poem of, oh, say sonnet-length;
it’s supple, undisrupted. It feels like this:

I close the door. (Behind it: gabble
and disjunction.) And I walk into the clear,
black night. I’m in a great arena. Nothing
can be seen – there may be nothing to be seen – except
of course for the ball on fire. That’s all I need.
That’s all: the darkness, and one burning sphere.
And I follow its light down the field.

-Albert Goldbarth –

follow the light