Foxtrot
Eyeballing you as a
sticky bun; pondering how
to reach out without
getting stuck.
"Perhaps it’s the flare of the
Season, or more primal
reasons, but I find
obsession in the chase, if you
don’t mind the pursuing."
Your lashes flutter in
exasperation, twin Venus
Flytraps stretching before
consuming,
those pinholes inside lick the
air around me, scanning
risk and prospect within such
veiled intent.
"Are your legs prepared for the
pumping, is your ardor
thumping to torch my
feverous mortal thrill, or shall
doubt guide your undoing?"
I load my quiver without
malice, aware splendor is
never afraid of
vast effort.
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