#102: Tarmac, Leaves and Whispers

                What is sexy, then?

Your voice.
 
And there’s a light breeze here.
And a leafless tree is hiding the full moon.
It wasn’t cloudy a while back.
The night watchman in the alley beside my window is blowing his whistle like he always does, tapping his stick in a rhythm; a cadence. 
And the dogs are barking, I can see them but they aren’t loud.
It is all so mellow. Soothing. The kind of night when you sleep well.
 
                I love your painting.

Painting with words?
I’d paint on your bare brown skin
Draw alphabets with the very words you love so much
My fingers touching your clavicle. Going through the shoulders and reaching your back.
Slowly, I shall spell out the words, while the dogs bark distantly.
Your winged scapula arches backwards in sheer ecstacy as I write.
Words, such a turn on.

And as I tepidly inch closer to the words that you want impregnated on your body,
I sense carnage in your mind and warmth in your body.

I spread over your being like oil over water.
Never becoming one yet like
A painting of light with its nonchalant beauty
Reflecting, bursting, beaming with the million colours that we know of
We make a

                Painting, with words.

Words, such a turn on.

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