At the tip of a pen

Inside out adverse and reverse, I can see her now echoing away from reason.
The tip of a pen
Warm is the light on her flesh. It glows when flames caresses her curves and consumes without pity all her reality. The skin is full of promises, dense and loaded with whispers. Wild and rich her aroma seems to be created only for me to cherish and taste. Spices and salt, life in a shell.

I desire the ink to flow as it follows the lines she imposes. I want it to rush out, making her tremble and beg, losing the pride of her pose.

Inside out averse and reverse, suddenly I am in her, then becoming her, and the artist is you with your pen erected, drawing the map of a lost continent deep in my flesh.

I am echoing away from reason: superficial and weak attempt to give love a meaning and passion a prison.

Inside out adverse and reverse, I am yours as much as myself, shaping as much as I am given life at the tip of your pen.

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