I come to this holy place in my mind, wrapping it up in
birthday paper I wanted back when she was more than just a memory, instead,
solid flesh, still holding her breasts in the palms of my hands, a perfect gift
I still feel all the way to the tips where the buttons tighten and I wrap my
lips around them.
I come to this spread of legs, and the whole other holy
ground I need to make fertile, to pow first, then see, the slow movement of my
plow stirring up sacred soil, and then, down deep, to where the seed must penetrate.
I come to this holy place now because it is no longer
possible to get there any other way, the need to feel it around me as I press
close in, a sacred ceremony I imagine day after day, night after night
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