Languid flesh lies writhed upon an imagined bower. Butterfly touch and honeyed tongue. Deep somnolence. Hypnosis. A meditation in fingertips and breath. No thought, no thinking, no weighing of consequence. No exoskeleton of life’s pageantry. Just these moments, fragments, a tracery of seconds stitched together with the quickening pulse of blood. I can’t imagine beyond this. No street sounds or melody. No television flicker. Just slow, deepening silence. A sinking. A letting go. Release. The arch of a foot. The painted curve of spine against silk. Bitten lips. One violent inhalation of breath and a final, fatal clutch of skin.


6 thoughts on “somnolence

  1. dolceii says:

    Thank you. And Martin? Less with the commenting and more with the actual writing of blogs, ok? We want some more!

  2. kyknoord says:

    I always get a cramp in my toes when I arch my foot. Really breaks the mood. Terribly awkward.

  3. dolceii says:



    Me too, Kyk. Me too. Especially when your lover mistakes the shouts of agony for ecstacy. Awkward indeed.

  4. Cramp? Agony? Screams? Awkward?

    Sounds like my place on a normal night


  5. dolceii says:

    Oh Bertie. You even get free rabies shots at your place!

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