Take me to the lavender fields, do me like you love me— She said. Get down, eat me like a fruit. Let my soul tangle in yours, and let our words be colorful. You wait on my words, I don't hesitate to tell you
how I
love to see you eating for your life.
The sunset is spilling down the blue canvas of the sky, like a drying painting. The grass tickles my spine as we make love, naked. Your strokes, the drawback, the shiver in your body when you feel the orgasm pooling; Give me everything. You're a poet, writing, refusing to let this scene be just a memory. You want to write, so it can be forever. Don't tell me what to do, just put me roughly in that position. let me color pink stripes into your skin, let the affectionate burn fester...
Your mouth tastes like earth and everything that makes it artistic.
Let the wind of our sex scatter our minds and break us. This is the magic in it, undoing, and undoing in such a raw manner.
I want it all—He said. Lay back, and look me in the eyes while I please you. You tense, you writhe, you swallow; you lose control. You're not good at being quiet, and I love that. Your dark amethyst hair tumbles around each stem of lavender; and I run my fingers through it. I can feel it through your skin
the need
tiptoeing through your soul.
I write about a love letter for you, and you read it as I stretch you out on this bed of violet florets. As we are being carnal, I make you mine. I smell the fragrance of the pages you turned on the tip of your fingers… the ones that pull my mane in ready request. Your arch is deep and profound, just like the words you tell me. I try not to lose my dominance, but you make it so hard.
We share everything we hold, we don't suppress a thing. Every thought, word, and breath leaks out of us like nectar from a flower. The watery bands of sunlight heal our minds, and when we peak, we shatter into those celestial smithereens called stars.
She wipes a grass stain from her inner thigh, he picks away the lavender shrubs in his hair. Whisper-thin breaths. Lips wet with love. Gifts beautifully unwrapped. Pens still flowing, sensual noises lost in the aroma of the flower field.
After this, he'll paint, she'll write, they'll eat honey from a mason jar. She'll wear his oversized shirt inside-out, and he'll complain about how; of course, that's why he couldn't find his shirts. She'll feed him blueberries, and wipe the blue fruit juice on his cheekbone for humor. They'll laugh and dream about how good this sex was, and rest until they do it again.
