Acrobat

Your hands are a coffin. Smooth as polished cyprus, strength in every knot and plane.  They keep me trapped and breathless within.

Their eyes are serum. Lapis lazuli and drunken lidded, mawkish in my gaze and on my tongue. They soothe and enable the heat of my skin.

I am brimstone. Buried by you and burning for them.

I am an acrobat, feet on the ground.

I blame Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie and their Wordle Prompts for this unusual post. I will return to my normally scheduled fiction after Thanksgiving. 

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