Our skin could be touching, we could be
smooth-skinned against each other. I could be
gently suctioning your lower lip. We could
waterslide the length of each other’s tongues
towards insertion – complete, asphyxiating
immersion. The rubbery slap of a second skin.
We could be tunnelling through warm mud –
death’s antithesis. Shuddering like heavy boughs
in a hailstorm. Depressurisation. We could lose
track of whose fingers are whose, fighting
sleep to remain in the cuddle.
A far-away engine rumble.

Like a looping porno: somewhere, in some
plane of existence, this is already happening.
The orgasmic transition from ‘could’ to ‘will’.


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