3:45 AM

“The traveler” photographed by H.Reigns

Legs spread unvaryingly, 

Like 3:45 on a clock.

Wish I could say I was laying back

But the way his tongue is swathing my flower,

I am doing anything but laying.

His zealousness is greatly appreciated…

A zenith is reached quickly

But then,

dissipates just as briskly.

Moreover, 

it dissolves to become fuel for the next culmination.

My peach is resilient.

Yet, still, she quivers.

Saturating his lips as if they were caught in a storm.

I love it and I love him too.

He thinks that he can lick my pain away,

And swallow my secrets.

I wish there was a medal for a heart like his.

Synonymously, 

I wish there was a medal for a lengua like his.

I am certain it could not epitomize his intentions,

As he is a cunning linguist

Who is exploring my dimensions,

And probing my personality

Without the luxury of a bullet proof vest.

He takes the shots of verisimilitude 

Straight to the chest.

He looks up to see my face

To see if there is any trace of my past reflected.

He descends again…

He has resolved in his mind 

How he will resolve me.

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