Morning in the shower

My arms grow to the ground, fingers twirling into limbs of morning flowers. Eyes closed. Face curled in.
Becoming a child again. Back to the womb of the dirt. And I find myself underneath the rocks of the
ocean. In a cave of perfumed slumber. Naked. Painted with the oranges and roses from the distant sky. He sleeps on my shoulders, head slightly tilted, as his curls form waves on my salty skin. My arms are folded across his chest. His body which feels romantic. The rib cage a sculpted prison beneath the blue. I often have dreams where I fall in love near the beach, using his skin as cloth to dress it on mine. I weave it slowly with my lips, and my fingers become needle and thread with matching colours of soft cream. I return to crimson clear blue bending my knees on the floor. He washes me with salt, scraping the impurities. Returning me to the state of innocent virginity. My back becomes a dreary circle, as my spine stretches itself and cracks out its naked branches. In his hands, he offered me a treasure of little gifts. On that crisp Sunday morning, he gave me a bottle of smiles, and I drank it vividly like medicine. I have his heart in my mind. A Calypso spreading the water around his skin, holding him tight and steady to drink a drop of love.

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