Pretty as you are, I
touch you like forgiveness.
Twirling my fingers around your
lemon-sweet face, puckered-
blossoming the orchid of your
nudity- modest and smooth.

And your skin is like a canvas,
stretched taught over a frame of
milk sweet bones, delicate
and ornate in their entirety.

Around your neck my fingertips
graze- harvesting your first-times-
your fluttering virginity, a butterfly
in a dust-fucked jar, cursed by age but
detained by curiosity.

And my fingers they play you-
a wind instrument, hollow
bones,
a body chime.
The skin stretched over
every hiatus between
each spinal vertebrae,
a noise.

As I remove you from beneath my tongue,
I stop.

Drown myself in your nudity-
smother myself in your
warm rose-stained breath.

But it's not until late,
a dawn-raped night, when your
lips, they turn sour-ceramic and break off-
little winds of dust making love to the potter's wheel.