of straddling tongues and more

my memory of you is of salivating tongues. and tasting the queer geometries of us.

didn't we both have our favorite holes. 

it is hard though to decide what those tongues did to each other.

it wasn't just 

sex.

eat,

crawl,

scratch,

knead,

poke, trace,

twist, nudge;

a hundred verbs would have to come together to begin to describe what they did to us.

those
straddling
tongues.

there had never been a body whose entire breadth of existence and states of matter I had been so intimate with. 

you...

are my own.

when you slept,

i would sync our breaths

so that I took yours in with every one of mine.

i tasted the nails you once clipped,

and did not you wonder,

why I kissed you so much?

it was delicious,

refreshing,

to drink your kisses.

even now the thought of it makes me drool, and renders my tongue restless.

in the places that I visit,

I practice what it would be to cup the back of your head and enter you.

tongue first.

it would be fine if you ever got paralyzed, and needed to be cleaned up when you shat yourself.

part of me wants to hose you down right now.

a thousand kinks that exist in the bizarreness that sexuality is,

to paint, pee, and pet,

to dirt, drink, and drag,

to pretend to eat,

to lick, to lash,

to cooking for you a full meal for cash,

a thousand kinks that exist in the bizarreness that sexuality is,

I want to do with you right now but most of all,

it is 

the straddling tongues that I want.