December 20, 2003

Where? Ah.
To the end. Sing the sorrows and trail the silvan scent.
Come in out of the rain, thou sayest, but thou never steps aside.
I pull you over to me, your lips on my mouth, biting the lips, hands grasping, holding, pushing, pulling, there.
Pressing ourselves to eachother, held together by the centrifugal force of passion and need, your ears, your eyes, your hands, your lips.
liquid man.
What?

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