Her peach fuzz lips have supple folds,
doughy like wrinkled maple
leafs, soft-faded near the end of autumn.
Her cherry blossom cheeks, smooth vanilla cream
spreads freckled by strawberry seeds;
she always dusts his after work dessert in powdered sugar,
fresh from the Maybelline jar across the counter.
His masonry scars are deep laced;
nature’s grout barely sustains
the leather-bound knuckles
that moan and then buckle when lifting the fork
pressed delicately into her shortcake.
Rust flakes from bent elbow and wrist
as his fist collapses to her waist,
settled with the crumbs of dried frosting
waiting, to be lifted and shook off;
colleague escapees of the dusty porcelain plate.
The evening sun settling against the horizon for the night
rolls over burnt coffee curls, and arrests his eyes.
Her supple peach lips glisten, expelling satisfaction’s intrinsic sigh.
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