The smell of citrus, orange, no lemon, yes grapefruit
Circular, no oblong
Tactically a mystery to the North.
Taste is the most blessed curse on earth.
In my younger years, proximity was enough
To part my lips in expectation
But I weary.
When does love begin?
As soon as sensation is satisfied.
The flutter, the pump, the laughter, the tears
We are chainless slaves to the mystique.
You are a prison, a jailor for deception.