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Bedlam with seraph-fine fingers around
your throat. Less kiss, more like how the panicked

swimmer gasps water; anything but drown
into sea-blue bloat. Anything. You licked

the bit of knuckle that your tongue could reach.
Unlike the surf nothing pulled you under

save lust; your own tidal-flow on the beach,
my face in your flood. “I want your finger

down here.” There will be bruises tomorrow.
There is a ridge that my curved thumb can clutch.

Moon glow. Sea crust. The tide pulls out. A hiss
upon stones and you break from the shallow

water. You gasp, gag, recoil from my touch
and then sigh, pulling tight against my kiss.