I love not just the shape of her, those curious curves that
tremble to my touch, or those depths to which I ache to reach, but the essence,
too, the treasure in the Crackerjacks box that always surprises me, the mystery
of what she is, what she hides, what she keeps private to all but herself.
Yes, I love the touch, the press of lips or hips, how she
fits when we are chest to chest, always the ache in need of relief, and those
times when I wonder what transpired behind those dark eyes, what thoughts she
thinks when or if she think of me, all this lost in time and perhaps erased by
circumstance, she misreading what goes on behind my eyes as well, and what I
crave, essence over substance most or equally the same.
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