trouble

By Coco
he doesn't touch me, he comforts me
he doesn't heat me up, he turns me into honey in his hive

he's slipping with the rhythm of my trance
scented charmingly with his passion vines' collections

inside him, i make blossom the whimsical hypotheses
anointed with my essential myrrh

he whistles with happiness… i'm the sculptor of his time
marbling under his eyelids the tenderest trouble

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