If ten lines are supposed to dictate my love,

then let the first three show

how your curves, appetite, and glances will promise

a few more adjectives

to our most imperfect layers;

whereas, and like most poets, I will let the next three give credence to

my lips, thighs, but most importantly,

the way we danced in between sweet soupy jazz notes, textured between a few flats and sharps;

but for these last four, I’ll let those

speak to the four seasons, and how they daringly and patiently wait for us to breathe heavily inside of these white sheets.

M.C. Davis

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