From the nape of her neck, running down sweat, and how bitter taste it is.
Before noon, rolling half‐split chopsticks, for tomorrow to Loo at the hexagram.
With a doubt her secret lover, the night to follow him secretly, no fingers there are.
To view it privately, on the edge of the toilet seat, bits of down there.
The one of plumed cockscomb, the thickness of it's ear, like the reign with you,