She was a fragile body,
but the loud love in her heart
had often made them sprint,
then away in a split-second.

She was not meant to be undressed
for those who were oscitant.
For ramming and rummaging her aroused body
was not for the faint-hearted.

And then her fascination
for number thirty-three was an uncanny coincidence.
because she wouldn’t come
in less than thirty-three positions.
Never had.

She was a tough soul,
after collapsing for infinite times.
She wouldn’t collapse anymore.
She was her refined, reformed self.

She would cry. Still.
But she would, as well, catch them,
running away,
by the loose strands of their shadows,
and pull
till they are undone.

The labyrinth…
naked at her feet.

Not everyone could tolerate the amalgam of love and lust at its extreme.

Then she would dive,
in thirty-three hundred barrels of blood,
poisoned by thirty-three spoons of tears,
and three drops of semen,
and practice
her favorite butterfly stroke.
33 laps.

32 times already,
She has been unlucky.

– Alexander Timofeev

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