Rubbing against the silky oak
table feels like
rubbing my face against
the underside of your
arm; so smooth.
Poetry | Stories | Photography
Rubbing against the silky oak
table feels like
rubbing my face against
the underside of your
arm; so smooth.
The table is set.
The chairs are in place.
You are the main course.
We take turns spreading butter upon you;
Our carnivorous canvas.