Untitled 69

Among the piqued daffodils
my body of silk.
Nothing has touched me
but a phantom with a ribbon.

The friction of lace on my
lowest, basest secret.
The clouds are pearlesque,
my skin a pearl casing I wear
because elegance is getting
cheap as talk.

Born from my animal mind,
her breath cascades
over my breasts.
Her hands peel the lace sweetly,
sweaty.

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