A thorn you placed between your delicate nipples,

softly pressing the point into the plate of your breast,

a proclamation for traffic patterns of yearning hands.

Dictating which way fingertips should lead rivulets of sweat,

condensing at the line of your hair and forehead,

marking it's way as it travels further

down,

conquering each pore with it's impassible commands,

like the time I took your magnolia and placed it in a glass vase,

without water's nectar, because they stung.

And your widow's peak was always something that made you

you.

A soft malignant splice on the scalp of you,

a mark of denoted beauty for all to witness and compensate for

through the shadows of their flaws.

And the thorns conducted which way the perspiration would flow,

making patterns of glossy sheen, etched across your chest

effort of temptation:

soon.

I harvested your skin with my hands,

groping and making every inch mine, a mark in the paving of your innocence.

And then was not the time, to dissent,

the deed was near done, the moon half full

your resistance extricated from the shadows of those

from which you were conceived;

a filthy representation of the magnolia's petals in corrupted moonlight.

My head pressed flat against your abdomen,

listening ardently to the sounds of fluttering first-times, and synthetic forget-me-not dialogues.

And my head moved with the developing flow of your stomach,

contractions of symbiotic maybe-love.

The tips of your fingers ravaged the hairs situated atop my head

deforestation temporarily for you to hold onto.

And this preventive strategy was paper in a puddle,

disintegrating, deteriorating with each article of clothing lost,

thrown to the floor, like the dignity of your heart

on that night.

And my fingers traveled kindly up the thighs of you,

taking you as you wished,

moving as one to the soft autumn wind, suspending the transparent drapes,

attached to the ends of the open window

pulsing and feeling the edges of the walls encasing us here as if they were

alive.

And I tucked a flower behind your ear, a magnolia,

to tell you how extraordinary you were,

how no seed could ever produce a creature

quite like you.

And seemingly-scarred and without satisfaction, you left:

clothes packed, forced between those sweet rouged nipples,

nude and unrefined you departed

door left ajar to permit the cool autumn air

to validate this denouement.

Constricting my body to the realm of these sheets,

still warm, at the thought of you.