The wind blows through the
leaves like fingers through your hair. I paint the image of your face on the
landscape, although I know you’re not really there, this stirring of the heated
world we live through, sweat over, and pine about, not able to feel if all for
real, the gentle kiss of moist and heated lips, the imagined press of hips, the
slow sway in a dance that can only grow more intense the more we engage in it,
the wind scented with our scent, stirs up in me a need I know we cannot meet,
this late in the season, this so distant world, the wind gust lifts up your
dress, a seasonal tease as I peek at the precious fruit under the canopy of
leaves, the wind blowing and I can’t help think of you.
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