Breath
"What's in your deep end?" he asked with a light laugh and piering eyes.
I bat with my girl next door blues and deflect the question back... because my deep end is not a large, dark, pressure filled cavern with a bottom but a sub-dimentional scene of parallel-eyes-ed expression that must be properly textured. It's a bound stillness pushing against the many layered currents of self. It is a series of winding, confining, twisted, descriptions of release and conscription. They weave together and apart, with intricacy, like shadow outlines that glide along the fringes, the gaps, between lust and fear, abuse and trust, exposed flesh and oblivion's rush. Worm holes where dragon tails lie, ecstasy erupts, and precision traces the faces of your fears, assaulting them with brazen confrontation. The seams of these thought streams combine into a tapestry of fetish abyss that rhymes along with songs most don't dare sing. Let me lick that salty metallic taste off your reflective blade while my mind chimes in synchronization with a decadently depraved need lost deep beneath your hairline. A gravity deeper than subspace that pulses with raw release and a perfect pearl.
(yes, the spelling "miss takes" were intentional)