Queen of her day she shifts, snakes, sashays bare hips into creamy sheets. Damp strands wring themselves on bare shoulders, back, and cheeks. Her hips, they roll, dip, squish into a pillow-top mattress like an aggressive kiss. She basks under a cool, fresh, autumn kissed duvet. Spreading her legs (slow, wide) enough for the crisp covers to kiss the warmth of her wetness. She quivers, quakes, shakes a yawn from her breast. This is not sex. This is the Saturday romance we call independence.  |
2 comments:
that poem is S-E-X-Y!
Thank you =]
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