way up

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

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as sweet as a sin...

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check it out

a little bit

salut, — allez, bisous

every kind of people

across the borders