Like water, like ink, it falls on the eyelashes, drop by drop, moisturizing the delicate body.
The lingering, stretched out in the other body, my bestow.
My name. Your body.
My body. Your name.
A lover is like a piece of paper, and the pages are flying in the dust, not like a bit of charm.
Creeping on each other's ankles, kissing the mysterious territory, engraved on the tip of the tongue, is the guardian of imprisonment.
The possession of lust.
Envy and hatred.
The gift of lust.
The Book of People.
Sexual skin.
Full of blood.
It is your head.
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