Cobra motion wing span I lunge towards the fullmilk moon, and pierce her taut pale skin with serpent teeth entirety. Laughing, the release ritual complete, she showers nourishment of liquid light to splash carelessly upon the fawn underbelly of arid leaves. Chrome underneath, the burial leaves hum a lulaby to the waves above through bellows below, as I slide my woman's arms through the silken threads of languid lost grasses of parched summer's slight. Caressing my beloved's tresses is no more thoughtless and free than this bliss of fragrant rich residue bed and sprinkling kissing milk running rivulets down my naked breast. As black mined earth, uncovered at last sucks in the almond scented elixer of fullbloom moon, drenched both, we succumb finally to the mourning dove call of her porcelin creamed blood. My scaled tail circles the breathing mound thrice, and silence shatters no breath in wrath's flame. Now I lay me down to seep into the fullmilk moon's baptismal embrace.