At the Backseat of Mercedes

The car now smell you, me, us not of some freshner.

The silence here surpassed by your, mine, our moan.

Pull me closer not to your bosom but to your lips.

Release me; your strand grasped tight.

Release me; your aroused breast rest on my thigh.

Release me; let me release ‘ween your teeth.

By Sangbad

A poet, an author, a reviewer--in one word I'm a literaturist (means one who is trying almost everything that Literature is made of). My books are available at Amazon. I'm a Bengali, born and raised in Kolkata, West Bengal.


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