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Dec. 15th, 2004 @ 04:44 pm Petite Mort

Something sacrificial lingers on the air
We breathe it in with no thought
I can still feel your touch
(Your kiss)

[Sigh with the weight of a thousand whispered moans in the dark]

The silk trail left by your tongue still runs
Up my leg
Across my thigh

You have the fingers of a pianist
You play me like a forgotten concerto
Losing yourself to the music
Losing yourself in me
Your touch against my skin is like
A butterfly (light) (air) (silk)

Hands buried in hair

[Agony and ecstasy and a million guilty pleasures in between]

I want you to hurt me, to kill me over and over
The crush of your lips on mine
Your skin under my fingernails
The soft moan under my breath
All for you

Bite down
Draw blood
Hurt me like you mean it

A thousand whispered moans
(Your hot breath on my neck)
A thousand little deaths
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