By Rushika Ramani
Copyright ©2023
5AM on a winter solstice,
Nipples poking through satin; Doesn’t come
Close to a slow burn like this.
Nor does being buried
By an undertow, when the
Wave breaks overhead
On the cusp of
The melrose station and his
Burning scorpion gaze
Butterflies swirl like cold smoke
Milk white drop of
Arousal; and I am nestled
Between his lips
Oh god,
Where is my mind?
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