6

She reminds me
How it all disgusts her, 
My rituals of anticipation,
My tentative sensations.
And her feet sink into the couch,
Dusted white,
Floating on leather.
Her toes curl.
I see crop circles
In fields of heather.
I see a word
Resting on Damascus,
Carried by a feather. 
Her lips kiss a silver cup,
Glowing like seven rings
In a room dancing with scents.
Of her,
Of the droplets of espresso
Playing with her tongue, 
Of her morning bathed skin,
And of me,
My faith,
My sin,
Of waiting for you to come.

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