Her hands have a habit of finding my hip bones,
trailing her river like fingers along my stone smooth skin,
her lips do not move, her mouth tells me stories.
Mine spend their time
tracing the length and breadth
of her back in kisses*
We travel through lands that never existed
before we touched them
At temperatures far exceeding in Fahrenheit
If only we could understand
how lust and geography
make such divinely sinful bedmates.
* One hundred and sixteen
// an
Want to know something funny?
I hate geography.
