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by Stephie

"What's better than a ten?"

Quarter past lunch,
you twitch in remembrance.
Glazed eyes seeing her flushed, fucked face in the mirror;
lips and skin playing out frame by hungry frame
of a Tuesday feeding frenzy.
Images rise with your quickened breath,
like steam, more vivid than a transparent overlay.

Muscle memory conjures sensations of being wrung out,
sucked dry then finally coming---
senseless and beyond pleasure.

Hungrier than when you stepped out for lunch,
your knees buckle in recollection.
So good,
you count to eleven before crossing the street.


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