Life is slow.
On my skin
his breath
a cloud of velvet.
In his palm
my heart swollen
and starving.
My daydreams rot. Peaches
smoldering under sunlight
in the wake of summer.
In latent moonlight
he devours
scraps of my youth
drunk on regret
my body a vessel to memories
of some far away girl.
Now a woman
fiery aching and alone
—the moment is
moist and alive
silent in his sheets while
she throbs through his center.
We both lie awake
and wait.
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