At Corners

Does he notice? how beautiful the shoulders, sun-kissed, barren and browned in the heat of Summer bearing, as they must, always, the weight of the body, while waiting to tell another’s story, as straps so purposely give, then slide and fall at their own fruition, here and now, at how delectable the flesh is at corners, with trailing hands and kisses meant to destroy, then resurrect what the body was always meant for; here, in this turn and curve into another.  


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