It’s like a stranger we know by heart. I call it your Royal Classic Melter.
It’s always like this: your tongue cuts me out into brand new shapes I never knew I could shift into. Same stroke, different penmanship. Same chords, different song. Or, more so, you know it’s what makes me the metaphorical ice cream under the sun, but never of the same flavor; only, it keeps getting sweeter, more palatable. Such is our Museum of Pleasures, where you always drive me crazy; when, for hours, you can sound like my lungs and we end with our breaths inside each other’s throats, and our fluids in between my thighs (ten million kisses a day) –
Heaven’s locked and loaded and I’m your lucky single target. Aim at, and aim for, my temple. Shoot, my love. I will not run for my life.
Vivien Marie Lopez Jorillo