It is the tip of your tongue, the very tip of it, circling, the tip of your delicious tongue that I crave, not against my tongue, no, not around my nipple, no, oh, though your sucking is so, so luscious. But closer, yes, closer.
The night is cool now, day warm, now, morning humid, skin slick, your ripe body next to mine, not here, no, not now. It is a dream, a language I cannot speak, this here and now, this desire not so much for interpretation as for knowing. Your tongue, oh, skin, yes, fuck me, more, the unspoken, truth, the Ding an sich.