In the clean, cold air of rainy mornings, dreams come through; these are the things that emerge from my still-pond mind in the dark, heavy hours when the city is washed clean, ruffled like a wet bird.
Your hands slide over my body, polish my skin like warm marble, shadows flutter all about my face, white sheets silvery in the low light roll and undulate like a sea of milk. I was wearing my black silk dress with soft gold running across the hem—you worked it off like snakeskin. I felt it peel back like from a sunburn, like filaments of skin pulling apart, that transparent lace of discarded flesh. Underneath I was soft and white as the surprising inside of a ruby red lychee fruit; raw.
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