though she sends the naked pictures anyway
for me to peruse in
the middle of the night,
like a voyeur peeping
through a lace curtain
that my ex ray vision
has already penetrated,
pictures of her hand
placed just so
above this
smooth-skinned and usually invisible
part of her body, like a Creamsicle I used to lick as a kid,
always anxious to get
to the soft inside
where the cream
lingers on my lips,
her gift like a
precious memory
I have yet to see in the flesh,
if I ever do, perhaps condemned to witness
it all in my mind at
a distance -- the naked truth.
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