flesh in motion.

[baculumcyaenon]

my body is a screaming banshee.

Intense distant passion, it withers like your hand pressed against glass in the rain, looking over a graveyard or mothering butterflies.
whichever one you told me to pick, i didn't.
i told her to display vanity the other way, without pearls or vibrant eyeshadow, casting eerie prisms on the windshield, windows, and upholstery tightly stretched over your dashboard.
you say i'm ethereal, not withstanding temptation from demonic forces, i dont understand how synapses works entirely.

bodies in motion. flesh, the centrifugal force to all carnal apatite, no. flesh is the gateway to love, the prefix for desire.
thoughts actualize; dreams, in powder form, materialize and spontaneously combust, erupting into flames.
i'll take you down through hips, thighs, cervix, ankles, toes.
i'm starting to slowly peel my clothes off, then skin, then muscle tissue, then bones, and neatly fold them up, stack them on your drawers.
outstretched arms help me into your bed.
and i don't want to leave the crisp cold sheets lukewarm any longer.