Flesh.

The Flesh.
The raw substitute for Skin.
A delicate loveliness
so firm
yet so eager to be torn
away.
Dispersed
into the void
and the ocean
of pleasure.
All its pores
open
and awaiting
divine
acquaintance.
Scattered through
trembling lashes,
writhing hands
and
racing heartbeats.
The acute relief
of pain
and the pain
of relief.
The struggle
to collect its pieces
and the war
among the fumes
and the sighs
of dancing silhouettes.
The Moon
shining shyly
under the veil
of lust.
A woman
and her swain,
a man
and his mistress.
Palms
holding
palms,
the back
against the chest,
lips
toying with lips,
a tongue
wandering
and anticipating
for
infusion.
A pair of fingers
running
gently
yet roughly
on the Skin
turning it into
the Flesh.
What a symphony
of maddened
voices
echoing through
the darkness
of the light.
What a poem
of pure
words
being read through
the impurity
of the unconscious.
The Flesh.
A matrimony of
exuding fantasies
and a unity
of unknown
strange
unfamiliar
dreams
into one
single
Flesh
whose Skin
is ripped
by the Absence
of kindness
and mercy.
The Flesh.
The wrapping of
the Heart,
the reflection of
the Soul.
The ultimate
weapon,
the utter
tool.
For every
wish,
desire,
and wanting,
and every
nasty,
foul
and wretched
delight
in the mischievous
corners
of Sex. sign up for membership Sugaring Hamburg