Tame taffeta slides between us,
your arms around me, robust.
I must get around to breathing in the soap-scented skin
once lathered in tantric trance and sin, now clean. So that she won’t know.
Your laugh rumbles, softly, curls in my ear,
like August surrendering to September.
We slip, smoking out the bubbles of summer nights
filled to the brim with stars. You are not mine.
Tuesday green leaves sway outside — a curtain of beads,
dancing in our celebration of the clandestine. Creamy thoughts of yearning rise.
Quixotic clouds graze past the blue of skies, seducing
a rainbow of imbued dye to arch over us.
We riff, repeat, blow out the bass and I must get around to drinking you.
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