just hear
all of the little leaves flit not yet conscious
you fill the forest with their sound and they
sound your hart breath,
sour salt, your blood----the
wet rough of your lips and blue veins
under olive skin
shrink back when they sense me,
rustling, as if
those veins shrink from
the brightest sunlight anyone who is not a poet can
imagine on a back-lit matte skin not yet
i whisper
touches
are for a little
later on
for now just hear.
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Bree loves to know whatchu thinky.