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We’ve reached our point of saturation on this particular rooftop, breeze billowing the fake silk curtains. Let me lightly touch your forearm another desperate attempt to catch your breath this drunken gaze through the sunglasses my white dress in the wind and your hot arm on shoulders there’d be a thin film of perspiration shortly, blended with alcohol and perfume oh let me -- wipe it away, your troubled brow, the screwed up mouth, I know, can produce such lovely sounds the sky burnt into my iris aren’t you wearing lenses, then? – they’d ask – the turquoise of my eyes gaze into them, unabashed, swim and emerge -- quite forgiven on the other side. |