Each memory stores your cupcakes and love mine - know-it, wherever you are - it's the smell of snuff blonde spiky me back to your night, Blast your skin deeper. Not that we aim snuff, smoke that covers the throat, but that vague ambiguous fragrance that leaves the pipe, in the fingers and that at some point, in a gesture unnoticed amounts of delight with his whip to pull up your memory, the shadow of your back against the white sails of the sheets.
not look at me from the absence of gravity a bit with that child into your face a mask of a young Nubian pharaoh. I think that was always understood that we would only pleasure and light holiday alcohol and empty streets by midnight. From you I have more than that, but in the memory naked and dumped me again, our planet was the bed where you need to slow, compelling geographies were born of our trips, landing both resisted friendly embassies or fruit baskets or crouching archers , and every hole, every river, every hill and plain the nights are in strenuous, between dark parliaments of allies or enemies. Oh traveler yourself, machine oblivion! And then I run my hand across the face with a distracted gesture and the smell of snuff in my fingers again to bring you this present used tear you antelope projected on the screen of the bed where we live the endless trails of a fleeting encounter .
I learned you parallel languages: that of the geometry of your body that filled my mouth and hands trembling theorems, different from that of your speech, your tongue insular that many times I was confused. With the smell of snuff now becoming an accurate recall covers it all in a moment that is like a vortex, I know you said "I'm sorry" and I thought I understood that nothing I could grieve in the tangle of strokes which turned us black and white ball, slow dance in which each weighed about invading another and then let the light pressure of about thighs, arms, and gently rotate to another time disassociating ovillarse and repeat the drop from the top or the deep, rider or horse archer or gazelle, Hippogryph faced, dolphins in mid-air. Then I learned that the pain in your mouth, was another name of modesty and shame, and you decided you do not my new thirst and you were both satisfied, rejected pleading with me that way to hide the eyes, the chin support throat to keep me in the mouth to the black nest in your hair.
You said "I'm sorry, you know" and dumped on his back looked at me with eyes and breasts, lips traced a slow flower petals. I had to bend his arms, murmuring a last wish to run your hands through the most gentle hills, feeling gradually gave way and I missed the silky hand to pay your back wall where a blade often had little wing tarnished angel. I was sorry, and that penalty was to be born the perfume that I now return to your shame before another chord, the last, we rise into a single quivering replica. I know I closed my eyes, licked the salt of your skin, which descended volcándote to feel your kidneys as the narrowing of the jar they lean hands to the beat of the offering at some point I got lost in the stolen, dark passage that came to enjoy my lips as from as there, from your country up and away, muttering your sorrow abandoned a last defense.
With the smell of snuff blonde fingers babble rises again, the shaking of that dark encounter, I sought a hidden mouth quivering mouth, lip only sticking to their fear, the hot pink outline bronze and you fought to end my trip. And as always, I felt in that delusion it now brings me memories from a vague smell of snuff, but the mossy fragrance, cinnamon shade that made its way from oblivion secret necessary and instant game meat untold hidden consciousness that moves the most dense, relentless machines fire. Were not taste or smell, your most hidden country and the image was contact, and only today a snuff-stained fingers casually returned me the moment I stood on you to slowly reclaim the key passage, forcing the sweet stretch where your penalty wove the last defenses now that his mouth buried in the pillow sobbing a plea of \u200b\u200bacquiescence dark of hair shed. Later there was understood and penalty, the city I let yourself deeper in your skin from both different horizon, after the great siege engines and parliaments and battles. In this vague vanilla today snuff stain the fingers me awake at night when you had your first, your last sentence. I close my eyes and breathe in the past the perfume of your flesh most secret, I would not open to this now where I read and I smoke and still be living.
not look at me from the absence of gravity a bit with that child into your face a mask of a young Nubian pharaoh. I think that was always understood that we would only pleasure and light holiday alcohol and empty streets by midnight. From you I have more than that, but in the memory naked and dumped me again, our planet was the bed where you need to slow, compelling geographies were born of our trips, landing both resisted friendly embassies or fruit baskets or crouching archers , and every hole, every river, every hill and plain the nights are in strenuous, between dark parliaments of allies or enemies. Oh traveler yourself, machine oblivion! And then I run my hand across the face with a distracted gesture and the smell of snuff in my fingers again to bring you this present used tear you antelope projected on the screen of the bed where we live the endless trails of a fleeting encounter .
I learned you parallel languages: that of the geometry of your body that filled my mouth and hands trembling theorems, different from that of your speech, your tongue insular that many times I was confused. With the smell of snuff now becoming an accurate recall covers it all in a moment that is like a vortex, I know you said "I'm sorry" and I thought I understood that nothing I could grieve in the tangle of strokes which turned us black and white ball, slow dance in which each weighed about invading another and then let the light pressure of about thighs, arms, and gently rotate to another time disassociating ovillarse and repeat the drop from the top or the deep, rider or horse archer or gazelle, Hippogryph faced, dolphins in mid-air. Then I learned that the pain in your mouth, was another name of modesty and shame, and you decided you do not my new thirst and you were both satisfied, rejected pleading with me that way to hide the eyes, the chin support throat to keep me in the mouth to the black nest in your hair.
You said "I'm sorry, you know" and dumped on his back looked at me with eyes and breasts, lips traced a slow flower petals. I had to bend his arms, murmuring a last wish to run your hands through the most gentle hills, feeling gradually gave way and I missed the silky hand to pay your back wall where a blade often had little wing tarnished angel. I was sorry, and that penalty was to be born the perfume that I now return to your shame before another chord, the last, we rise into a single quivering replica. I know I closed my eyes, licked the salt of your skin, which descended volcándote to feel your kidneys as the narrowing of the jar they lean hands to the beat of the offering at some point I got lost in the stolen, dark passage that came to enjoy my lips as from as there, from your country up and away, muttering your sorrow abandoned a last defense.
With the smell of snuff blonde fingers babble rises again, the shaking of that dark encounter, I sought a hidden mouth quivering mouth, lip only sticking to their fear, the hot pink outline bronze and you fought to end my trip. And as always, I felt in that delusion it now brings me memories from a vague smell of snuff, but the mossy fragrance, cinnamon shade that made its way from oblivion secret necessary and instant game meat untold hidden consciousness that moves the most dense, relentless machines fire. Were not taste or smell, your most hidden country and the image was contact, and only today a snuff-stained fingers casually returned me the moment I stood on you to slowly reclaim the key passage, forcing the sweet stretch where your penalty wove the last defenses now that his mouth buried in the pillow sobbing a plea of \u200b\u200bacquiescence dark of hair shed. Later there was understood and penalty, the city I let yourself deeper in your skin from both different horizon, after the great siege engines and parliaments and battles. In this vague vanilla today snuff stain the fingers me awake at night when you had your first, your last sentence. I close my eyes and breathe in the past the perfume of your flesh most secret, I would not open to this now where I read and I smoke and still be living.
0 comments:
Post a Comment