An intimacy within personal knowledge exists between us.
It isn’t in regard to exposure, or physical action that elicits quite a rewarding sound up against your neck.
No. A red hot rush of blood, a dirtied blade. A proclamation of title.

We exchange looks,
Knowing exactly where the words form. Two epidermis incisions, alike in nature and purpose.
I feel the stirring in my lower abdomen when we part,
Tracing a finger over the open slice,
Which spelt out your name.

The ****** I was slipped on my tongue
When you directed your grasp underneath my skirt,
I accepted with vigour,
Tracing a finger over the open slice,
Which spelt out your name.