my hand would softly trace your skin
the curves and pores i loved so well
a type of stained-glass innocence

as underneath your night clothes, you
would breathe into your decadence
or decency, or goodness maybe

the shifting tangles of mutual posture;
the desire – not yours or mine, but ours,
a mutual effort to pull the sun from over the horizon
to gaze at these rival suns

explosions of color and washes of movement:
one, rapt in concentration for the moment,
the other, allowing focus to drift for maximum

as we, who’d go long days untouched,
would fit a months’s worth into
whatever time it took

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