Something about you blossoms,
all joyous and pink, frothing
around the edges of my brain.
There I go again, getting tumultuous
and fatally distracted
by the idea of you achieving
density and definite form,
by the idea of you touching
me in (once again) a literal way.
O! love, your lips would burn me
with tenderness, and the feel of you
beneath me would charge each nerve
with so much light that night itself
would tremble at my coming.

-r. miller

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