If it stopped raining now After a hundred years of writing poems About the smell of wet trees, I'd press the shell of my ear to your skin And listen to the engine of your dreams Pulsing like the voice of your body Telling the long story Of everything that rises and falls Everything that lives inside you And takes me down to zero again No hundred years of rain, no memory Of wet
from Lush Stories - latest Sex Stories https://ift.tt/2XfFfFw
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