and the clits get tickled to tip-toes
and how this story goes, is
a man once peddled petals to roses
slowly rolling the slip up
and holstered his gun
quick with his wit
and young with his tongue
at the end of which—shot stars— from simple nibbles
only the poets know of the lips to lips kiss in the middle
a place of quivers and arrows and bull’s-eyes
ached, he did, to bring some warmth to her cold thighs
feeling around in the dark
for the last piece of her spark
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