The fuzz that's on the skin of a ripe peach
is like the hair on her skin. I inhale
the fragrance of a flower, put my nose
against her neck, behind her curving ear
and underneath blonde hair. The canvas skirt
or dress she wore filled up just like a hot
air balloon. I want to be under there,
to feel the warm air trapped between her thighs,
to put my fingers on the porcelain
skin and hold it tight. Now when I speak
to her, I sing—I cannot help myself
from having this desire. When I dream,
the fantasy and fiction is like pollen
that floats in the dull air without a sound.
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