Down

Teasing a whisper trail
Covering over a lifetime
He said, she said
Cellists make good lovers
As she hugs her legs
Round the portly shape
Smooth timbre of hips
Vibrating sullenly
As boozy fingers
Re-member how to be
When eyes hone in
Expectantly
These beams come down
Onto me from the sky
A place I can never climb
So I evacuate from
The bottom rung
Sink my toes into
Mounds of moss
Lichen it grows
On me like you
Hidden shape teases
Behind a silk wave
Hiding her face
When I try to take
Her picture

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