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Write Handed Poetry

music

Played.

I press hot fingernails into flesh,
my red venom contrails on your spine.
You strum my softness nimbly—
musically—
I guess that’s why they call it
fingering.

Posted on October 25, 2016October 24, 2016 by Write Handed Poetry Tagged life, music, poem, poems, poetry, relationships, sex, thoughts 6 Comments
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