long sleeve shirts

put in debbie

i am not used to exposure

so if you were to touch me

it would seem as divine


and intervening into


there is so much more

a little black dress

and pinot grigio

a distant smile

a flicker from the taster

harmony of hips

rhythm of lips

cream of broccoli soup

made from the fermenting

of crossed legs

intimacy in the forest

a tent and the nylon of  pretense

a sweater that slips off like the moon

dips into your thighs

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