Poem Hunter
The Lounge
(04 October 1943 / Germany)

The Lounge

You lie with me, my love,
be still I say
and do not speak
while I begin
to bathe your twins
in warmth and pheromones.

Your hands now rest
so gingerly
upon my back,
pink nails
singing their tactile song.

Oh yes, I will,
hand roaming finds
its hopeful way,
to where new eagerness resides
and greets with glee.
A welcome,
moist with promises
and timid lust
that treads with care
onto two lips of velvet.

Where whispers live
and soon will speak
in tongues
that taste
and understand.

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