i am a traveller, and you are my map.
i lay you on the table as my eyes gaze
upon the wondrous beauty of your body—
every curve, every mark, every spot.
the places i have been to i mark with an X
using my lips and my tongue.
my fingers trace the outline of the places
i am yet to enter and explore.
i pin you against the wall in the heat of the summer mid-day,
and string you with ribbons and red threads to
keep you in place as my hands move all over you.
there are so many things i can think of doing to you,
but most of all, there are many things that you do to me:
you lead me to where i belong,
to where i have to be, to where i need to go.
i am a traveller, and you are my map:
i am lost if i didn’t have you.
i am a traveller, and you are my postcard.
you hold my fondest memory of exploration,
the words i cannot speak, the thoughts i cannot express.
you are the picture of things seen and unseen,
things expected and not, things i hoped for.
i am a traveller, and you are my postcard—
a gift from my past to remind me of its beauty,
a place that i would always want to return to.
i am a traveller, and you are my postcard:
you are wanderlust embodied, enjoyed, and enamoured.
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