Is what I see of her the true self or an illusion I imagine
as my tongue plays on the tips of her chest or laps up the honey of her delegate
flower down below.
Is that which my fingers feel real or what my mind had
conjured up in the depths of night, long after her encouragement has cease, and
I live with the mirage of what once was, a ravished tongue seeking an imaginary
oasis, and coming up empty, I am still dying of thirst, still cursed.
Is she real, what I feel, or is this illusive winged
creature as vapid as a humming bird, her wings too fast for my brain to
comprehend? Is what I felt once real or as empty as the night is now, the magic
trick where the pea is under none of the shells, as I point to this shell and
then, yet real or not, I still feel it, under my tongue, under my fingers, as I
plunge deep into her dark interior.
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