Pink Gin.

The sheets caught fire

The rays of light – like desire.

Subtly etching marks on the skin

Grazing her feet against his shin.

A scent that never seems close enough

Even when they’re intertwined and rough.

Bites on left and right shoulders;

Tracing outlines of each other;

Visions that quivered

Ended with looks that lingered.

It’s morning —

It’s a morning that tasted like burnt pink gin.

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