quadrille (Remove filter)
She Turns Her Body Into A Question
Our moon slips red—eclipse’s voyeur shadow cups her breast.
She lies still, a fawn, beneath my tear-brimmed eyes.
Her breath—dream’s morning dew?—a whispered request?
Light turns slowly, touch between her parted thighs.
She moans a whispered song—arching, “come to me.”
Wednesday 16th July 2025 11:44 pm
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