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On Tranquility

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  • On Tranquility

    In a sense,
    I want your
    sweet,
    sweet,
    innocence.

    Ignite the incense,
    and dim the lights--
    I want to dispense a massage tonight
    free of expense.

    Ooh baby,
    you're so tense
    when I slather warm oil
    up and down your back--
    it arches when my hands slink down,
    silently sliding the length of your slippery skin
    so surely,
    you stay satisfied with your soul
    being soothed softly,
    shortly,
    and serenely --
    these seconds never last.

    Strictly speaking,
    your supple skin is singing
    songs of praise to my fingertips,
    styled in such a way that is oddly
    reminiscent of a song sent from the fifties
    just to screw with my mind.

    The air is heavy with the scents of
    sandlewood and cedar cinder smoke
    that licks your lungs,
    sags in the air,
    and saturates the room.

    The subtle, sly, pressure I apply
    against your slick back swims
    with a sexy swagger to your center
    from the sender that shimmies
    shimmering circles surmounting the spine.

    Baby, my hands are like the the silk in the way
    that everything is so smooth, like slithering
    snakes tracing themselves on your back with a
    stencil -- it is so precise how I caress your dull aches,
    saying,
    "Baby, I'll take your pain for the sake of sharing
    because I want to make you feel beautiful and
    you are worth it."
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