your sex is not sex that
but look
deflower your skin, polishing
spines that hurt my soul
and synthesize your scent
until my body is consumed.
your sex is not sex that
but look away, run away
life repressing these hands
tired of writing.
Finding inspiration in the fallen petals of a spring
wild
fly without wings to fall on your breasts,
land - without a parachute, on the words that emerge
lips and caress your soul until you lose
touch on my fingers.
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