By Zama Khanyile
Tears drop tearing through the hardened exterior, it lingers on and I hear the cry of a wild cat in the silk sheets of a cash indulgent world. Sax in the mirror.
I yearn for the comfort between thighs of evil pleasure and my lips twitch as my legs move apart from each other, my guilty pleasure. Sax in the mirror.
My dark twisted daydream milks away from the normal from me. Maybe I am a bit crazy that sax has taken me to the world beyond my nipples the world where my sex is a mirror.
Forgive me my dear all these hot sweats and flushes I am experiencing are the dirty dealings of sexy in the mirror. Man I am so attracted to sax in the mirror.
My breath is taken away by the sex in the wind, vibrations of the saxophone. I melt, soon to be solidified by the tiny electric volts down my back, his tongue sets music in motion. Sax in the mirror.
There is no one else in this vast land but the sax and its power to create through desire.
You are the snake charmer and I am following the instructions of your notes, beating to the rhythm. Sax in the mirror.
What is your sax mirroring?
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