Culture | Inkwell

Crystals

This sweet agony that stems from my

Nucleus accumbens –

Down my spine

Down the veins of my right arm

Down to you.

 

This touch –

A feather tickling a hole into a corner of my

Brain;

Oh.

Oh would it that I could

Capture one or two of these tumbling, fumbling

Pleasure crystals and save them for

A moonless day,

When the lack of a person streams in through

The blind-ed windows, and

When my midnight coffee foxtrots

With my restless tongue,

And the smell of wetness just won’t go away.


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