1-800-Love
be aroused by traces of my smile... — a peony's taste at the route of your lips, a canvas of incidents expressed with the force of gravity at the power of ambition and hope in finesses of a fantasy metamorphosed with the art of a kiss for the fault of an overwhelming attraction incited by distance and accessed discreetly with that luring call at 1-800-love of the morning heat subjugated in a blue opaline confusion of a dream
