you that the sky hasn't been a thin blue line
since your preschool drawings. It seems like
if you run around the corner quickly, you might
sneak up on the sun, catch her slipping into
something less comfortable. But in Umbria
even the buildings wear vines like translucent
lingerie, hinting at the warm, dewy wetness
caused by thoughts of you. Inhale her through
the petaled lace, she only knows that sweet, slow
glow: the one you slide inside of me.
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