Rants. raves and ramblings from celestial circles . . .

shadows

 

Her soft hands
warmly knead my flour
a precious cargo
booming to land another flawless mission.

To Paris on her smell.

He doesn’t feel the final rivet snap
blooming foreskin
shielding the butt tip of his cockpit
as it rips apart
on his final approach
to her runway.

He smells the Paris of her hands baking.

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