So I lie down, eyes closed.
Sin wears silky lingerie, a
thin disguise for her
thighs. She
tangles my hair,
singles out a strand,
samples its aroma,
bands it together.
Bound, it feels better.
From the verses of Shakespeare to the violence of Football, a soft hand on the nape of my neck to the rim's hard rattle after a dunk, the mute of Miles to the rhymes of Rakim, the simplicity of Hershey's chocolate to the complexity of garlic pepper seasoned, cedar-planked salmon drizzled with lemon-dill butter, my thoughts scatter like grains of black sand across a wind-blown beach.
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