Jordin Sparks

I thirst for you but without proper size cup, what justifies reason.
Beginning to turn the faucet to a slow drip.
Little beads of water subsiding in memory.
Beginning to fill the cusp of hands.
Cascading into the true desire of drenched hands.
Holding near the thought of you.
Splashing down into the climax of euphoria.
The beads of water that explode on impact in the palms of open hands.
Drops that cover everything in sight, feeling without thought.
This urge predicted with each turn under the faucet of pure bliss.
Unknowingly knowing the feel of your cheeks.
The press of your smile. Tattooed against skin.
The very throb of your soul pulsating against the wrinkles of my hand.
The ripples that occur with each and every thought.
I long for your empathy.
To quench such thirst


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