small crimes

by
in love, if you're not losing your mind,
it means you waste your time, isn't it?

the breast of the muses is scorching…
lips bit one other for so much unkissed

the small crimes of longing are smiling,
laying on my bed, listening to bedding

naturally, who's getting mood to write
when all body is so as trapped in love

poetic audience

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mille fois

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come... — catch out my poetry's nipples with the island lips of yours ‧ suck out of it... the rain of my emotions announced in the forecast of love ‧ any dose will transfer in you the energy from the nest of my stars ‧ the molecular activity of my atmosphere is gonna erect your hemisphere ‧ our happiness from the present of now will immortalize any picture falling down  ‧ the vapors of our passion will sign with pseudo name, — [end of the world]
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an explicit saline councilor in the deepness of my eyes, sings prominently your song its treasured susurrations bent to my heart's pond, somewhere in the right ventricle a beauty orchestrated by lungs like a Scottish bagpipe sound made to oxygenate all senses
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in the breath of a buoyant thought, your traces which caressed me softly, are bulldozing now, bestial mirages 𓇼 you walled me in watermelon sugar to look like an altar, where you love to kneel, sniffing thru my laced hints 𓇼 even your oceans gasp inside me, using thrilling brutality of a butterfly, woven with the litany of your teeth
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