I have a couple books I haven't finished
yet. She sits, delicately applies blush
and straightens up her dress. I couldn't finish
saying how I loved her, she would blush
when I sang for her. We moved twin beds
together, we fucked and the powder blush
moved in the air. Above the joined beds
we read the infinite—the more I want
her body, the less I want to leave bed
at all. The textured narrative I want
is a contour of skin I'm finishing
myself within. I mean, who wouldn't want
to lose themselves in love? Her belly blushed
and rolled in the sheets on the dirty bed.
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