Like a tendril your tongue
trails down from the
balcony of my breasts,
falling forward freely,
it hangs and drags
in the small pool
at my center which fills
slowly with the salty sweat
made by our steady rocking.
I shift, causing it
to sway further out,
its sticky end inclined
to cling onto any new
surface it finds. It seeks
to bond, hold fast
to the tiny hard ledge
its come upon, so sure
of the rhythmic
thrill hidden there.
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