It is an itch I can never scratch for myself, deep down
where I can't reach without you, an urge I feel too often in the middle of the
night, yet can't quite reach, needing more than a text to cure, and so I close
my eyes and pretend, the hand I use as yours, my hand becomes your mouth, and
then sweeter parts, moving up and down and around, scratching this itch I feel
each time I think of you, and I pretend you have an itch too, deep inside where
I try to reach with my fingers and my tongue, and then later plunge deep into
reach that place where you itch the most, pounding at that spot until I hear
you scream, your itch and mine, cured stroke by stroke, until we both feel it
deep down inside, where it counts
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