Exposed

From this angle the bushes do not conceal them. Are they hinged or unhinging? Each body is a prison gate for the other, both seem stuck together by a pungent lip spit. Feathering fingers pulse-play over gulping skin. Greedy eyes zoom in, unbuckling muscles sift and trowel, modelling the creaming and palpable. This public act despoils the evening yet it also sweetens. I feel the need to rut, to suck inward all this carnality, to sup upon this liqueur of spiced flesh, even though my cupped hands remain regretfully or not, unsullied.