When I part the curtains,
her indigo jeans still hang
on the clothesline, legs spread
as I remember her last evening.
We listened to Mozart
and drank red wine.
Later, sprawled over the bed,
I played with her, with that soft part of her
that I can't say. Can't name.
Speech is not everything.
Confined in silence, yet could I
there speak my piece in tongues.
All contents © Copyright 1996-2023. Literotica is a registered trademark.
Desktop versionT.O.S.PrivacyReport a ProblemSupport
Version 1.0.2+795cd7d.adb84bd
We are testing a new version of this page. It was made in 263 milliseconds