Her mouth is like my Mother’s
but not as coarse as she might
like for it to seem. I watch her
features soften, her lips to silk,
her voice to cream
Her leather-saddled hips
shift gently beneath her shift,
and her almond eyes
like avocado pits, sit nestled in
her cheek of milky skin
She paints a bee-sting red
on her honey-nectar lips
that leaves her lonely
kiss, on the rim of every
wine glass
She smells of orange peels
and ginger, of basil and vanilla
She smokes two packs a day
of fancy foreign cigarettes
in hopes one night they’ll kill her
She moves like she knows
I’m watching, like she knows
how much noise she makes
as her black pumps praise
her gait, with a Click-Clack
across the floor –
And suddenly, I’m caught,
tangled in her hair. That
milk chocolate mahogany
sits scalloped and unaware
of my helpless imagination,
and slowing circulation,
as I desperately whisper
my lustful prayers.
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