There was a beauty mark
on the edge of your lips
it would dance as you talked
A slight swing to those hips
that I wanted to trace with my tongue
You were made up of
heady desire
a lick of inducement
Conniving thorns wrapped up in your touch
let me pierce my skin with it
I could taste those drops of crimson
meddle fire with ice
I’d fight off heaven and hell
just to become
those flecks of mahogany
engraved in your skin
Éloa 
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