By Christopher J. Bradley My fingers drip through your rainforest flesh and you gush. I want you to feel the tide like the top of a surfer's tube that I've never ridden. Your earlobes are my toungues grope spot and I see the arch of your back I twist my bony musicians hands mathemetician's hands into your hair the crop of your short tight golden mane not dyed at the roots and your fingers grip the post your arm twisted underneath your neck behind your head.
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