your phone buzzed with sparks; (you smile), saw your sweet trouble; i throb on phone's screen

with vocation I scull in your mind tempting you loving get sculled you'll invite me perpetually your thoughts sprightly are sculling me hold on, I'm coming

a riverwalk, — my body; your mouth, — my lover voodoo me transpire magic suspirations…

the longing arches me; on my pillow is spread your coquettish suffer trying to aid my dream; I don't oppose, I savor it; insanely charmed, avid moaning in anticipation for my virility technique of loving you, unleashed, I'm begged... in your hell

my harmony invites, your equilibrium, into me; let's play, but watch out, don't push it much, — your seductive velleity like a bliss, should be, articulated tenderly, piano, on my mind, to sail, for your raindrops of kisses to fall down on my skin, and your eyes to radiate intensely, in my eyes, — profound Herculean, even purer than the sky

you, brute benthos creature, i was prepared to be yours... 𓇼 i felt desire's scream in you, yearning to taste me, to get deep down inside me, like a holothurian to move thru my body, and famished to torture me passionately... 𓇼 instead, you metamorphosed in a minuscule blue butterfly... 𓇼 since then, you talk in colors

if I ever know something about the stars, it's they do music, — music measuring the immeasurable music embracing the indeterminable music crossing the universe... constantly discovering the unknown... — the one me the one you intertwined in its secrecy

before being a journalist , she's been a typographer ; typesetter or the linotype , it was no mystery to her ‧ the ink, the font, the paper, the offset or bookbinding , proofreading , printing , were traditional standard routine ‧ librarian, even a colporteur , she had already done them with dedication and with joy, with competence and grace ‧ she, — my unique goddess , my mom, – my sacred lady, to whom i bow profoundly, not just now but for forever

a mental imagery wings its way up to the satellite of your sky, — suspiciously, in the sky of yours it is late, — it is infernally late... yet, perceived, is a tremored whisper on my skin written with your mind it's about a cryptical story about us, — two lovers swaying smoothly together …preoccupied with nothing else

like any species of hydrangea, as I am, as you are, as we are be it white, pink, yellow, green, purple, blue, the pH is sublime like a smile on the lips of time with any color's ascetic perfume it is me, — it is you, — it is us, a🎸riff in the painting of love