the lost man chronicles
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my tongue

My language? My language is slow, it is biding, it begs to know, it is inviting, and is a soothing scratch that digs into you. It is more than these words can ever convey, or do to persuade you into a compromising, but truly tantalizing, position. It is a smirk, a wink, a smile, the wit and gestures that together wile to pique and defile all your proper learning. It is the expression of hopes for all that is merely momentarily elusive. It is a non-obtrusive inquiry meant to turn you slowly as the pages of a book. And sometimes, my language is simply the look, the hook of love found in a wanton gaze yearning to engage—you. My language, mi lengua, my tongue, is even sometimes solely the press of one rolling, attentive finger, and the ensuing sentiment that asks me to linger a while and rest serenely inside of you. This I confide and profess is my language.

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