Tuesday, May 15, 2007

Pure Naked Idle

The scent of your skin
is peppered with freckles
the sheets, the peach
of your pigment
the color of my predicament

I want to erase the taste
of the spot beneath your navel
while I'm able to convince myself it's best

but horizon or skin,
where you begin, where I end
is the blurry line of 'could be' (ecstasy?)
and it will never be defined.

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