By the fistful

Standard

Tickle my throat ’cause you’re swirly
lazy in your bath like a libertine
surrounded by petals that you’ve plucked from coral rose buds
I cannot tell where you start or end
but I accept that you are tangled into you
one over the other, woven like macrame
and are to be enjoyed by the fistful
or else one part of you leads to the next
while I tug, trying to unravel you

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