Pecks play checkers on ab packs,
Kisses rolling off course; dis-tracts.
Saliva slick talking whim,
my goatee whiskers trim,
torso curve resistant edges like Wahl’s clipper contacts.
Bliss be the brother smooching the womb with whispers to walk nerve responses up her…
Little navel creases cease to increase displaying nonchalant.
Raising goosebumps and reminding her of why we smell good together, look good together; are good together.
Nah, there’s no excuses for love,
belly ring lingo,
tongue curling over cocoa butter or after shower cuddling twos be the Kraft to make we singles.
Fumigation; sheets and comforters do perfume in her Dove and my Irish Springs,
Her love is why I idle things,
do her as the idols of all bridal things,
re-approach cautiously panty lines that rolled boxers hug righteously with rifles for navel rings,
scooping at the chest cavity to find heart and trenches,
I hope I’m all the king…
She’ll ever need.
We’ll never be, any greater than this, moment of romantic solitude,
Where the weary winds of the world no longer exists and emotions lay nude,
devotion plays tunes to the ears of 800 plus thread count sheet dunes.
And one kiss in actuality was all I needed,
To flat line her ass out like a paraplegic.
Signature move name: the Torso Touch