After years of gaining expertise in the rhythm
-erotism and sexuality speaking with my tongue-
I continue with the same pace
to get just a taste of aphrodisiac memories
even when in pieces,
even when mere leftovers they are.
And it reminds me of lollipops,
my mother's breasts and even my thumb.
It reminds me I need to cheer myself up,
and that pleasure lasts what it takes
to drink a glass of milk up.
Shapes nearly vanishing in my skilled hands.
Liquids flowing as if rivers of fire from my mouth.
A bell against my insides that yearns for
And I lick
-as if a faithful dog-
my master's hand.
I lick, as if by licking I could bring over yore
in a tray plenty of delicatessen
to barely satisfy caprices.