Look at you, sitting there. Eying me coyly from across the room. Perched in place, parched, pleading.
Your bright skin is soft to the touch, but firm, and healthy. Your bottom obscured by that jazzy little white number. I can't get enough of that gold ribbon draped across your midsection. You are a feast for the eyes, and I can't get enough before I pluck you from your place. A wonder to behold. To hold.
It's almost as if you reach for me, arms outstretched, begging for my attention. You need me. Without me, you'll wither and die, a lonely husk of a forgotten self. You thirst for my love, my presence, my existence, and I, in turn, revel in the companionship whenever I can. You're always there. You won't leave me.
There isn't any other. Not for you. Not for me.
I love you, Milton.
You're the best motherfucking plant, ever.
5 comments:
You.
Fucking.
Rock.
If I were not a taken lady . . .
And if your heart had not been stolen by Milton's sweet, sweet foliage . . .
(Insert obvious Miracle Grow joke here)
I see some bolding and italicization that, correct me if I'm wrong, I don't think was there before.
Sexy.
It wasn't on the very first posting, but it was there a few minutes later, if I recall correctly.
However, this site is sometimes weird about when it updates what.
P.S. Get the hell on a messenger sometime. I've discovered Travisty's email address.
I like the way you move your roots.
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