Wordle #169

I stitch the eclipse stirring

In the cheeky blue of your irises

That the blackness

Will not engulf me.

A shot of stars assemble

Piecemeal in your throat

In the manufactured room

Between your elegant thighs.

There are a million honors

I could bestow but compared

To your name they are lackluster.

I grip your sides,

Salubrious fluids merging

After a triumphant hike

Through your wilderness.

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