Your skin has a special kind of supple like a
Plum taut with ripeness that one pinch is enough
To induce rapture,

A burst of

Confetti. Like a child on her birthday hits the colorful
Piñata on the right spot and sparkling laughter,

Singing Fiona Apple’s happier tunes,
My hand on your shoulder an affectionate camaraderie,
Softness on your sturdy figure,

Like the feeling of your red and white swimsuit,
Stretched over pure bareness—

Two palms sliding into one another,
The feeling of “just right” and nothing more,

When you look to me,
Cigarette between freshly-kissed lips and I reach out to
Touch your face.


Painting by Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, “The Bed”, 1893


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