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(reading time 1 minute 9 seconds)
Closing my eyes, I hear the feverish pitch of your heart while my skin senses the earth, which discriminatingly recites her poetry in unison with the sun. My fingertips feel the pressure of garden seeds pushing dark, damp soil as roots grow downward. Your smell penetrates my nostrils, leaving a trail of nutty aromas. Routine is the knocking sound of the Red-bellied woodpecker, as he seeks beetle larvae underneath the willow oaks, old, dry skin.
Tapping your strong leg underneath my weight, I feel your rhythm giving birth to our dance. Your hand strokes my hair, giving way to a frail path of magnolia oil. Nearby, I hear the trill of the Blue Jay as my lips part, wetting them with my tongue, as I wait.
Expectations of your smooth mouth on mine send quivers through me, and past…
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