If I put my hands there, will they still be warm, two
mountains I feel the need to climb, to reach their pinchable peaks, clutching
them so as not to fall off, hands and fingers, lips and tongue, pausing at the
top if I’d successfully mounted Everest, the sides as smooth as velvet, the
taste of their fountain, sweet in my mouth, a memory of a memory IO can’t even
be sure is real, something clinging to me like the tatters of a dream, a wish
for it to repeat, never certain of what I touched felt so warm as I recall, or
as soft, or tasted a good, ly lips sipping forbidden fruits, even now, even in
a dream, a memory I cherish and won’t like go off, climbing to the edge of her
as if to the brink of a cliff.
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