the steady throb of pulsing inside.
beat. release.
beat. release.
beat. release.
amorously emptying.
beating, beating, beating, beating a bit more languidly.
vitality drawing out of me.
and then the thrashing. threads for veins.
weaving. sewing away.
like gazing into a rothko painting all crimson and purple then muddled to gray.
lured through the black lines into some mysterious cosmic place.
pulling and engulfing without your say.

and then arrives the steady throb of pulsing inside...