I am susceptible to the contour of your hips, they pull me, a tide race, white as sea foam, smell of salt in stirred air, metallic tongue-feel, palpable absence on a sunny day, evaporation as a kind of accumulation, a heavy lightness, breeze that sways the Varadero palms.
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Tag Cloud of Limingaars poetica Audio Poem autumn beauty bird birds Buddhism cat clouds cold crow crows death depression desire dogs dream dreams fall fire flash fiction grief haiku haikus heart home kiss life light loneliness lost love love love poem lovers lust moon morning naked nature night nude ocean poem poema poet poetry poets Post by Voice rain Ray Sharp river sadness sex short poem short story skin sky sleep snow song sonnet spring stars star tattoos summer sun sunset tanka tattoo tattoos of stars time trees water wind winter
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