The groaning mists of her thighs

Embellish the air like honey gliding through the pockets of air left in bread

In the morning’s boulangeries of the fifteenth, we lay there, creased sheets doused in moonlit sweat, the febrile glow from fucking

Our hands collided like Venus and Jupiter while I suggested chocolate spread on a rustic baguette

******************************************************

I tip-toed across to Ségur for beer

Never coming back with the bread

You lay there indefinitely, wondering, crying, a familiar disappointment in your head

Our love is like that loaf, like that pan, like that baguette

Something soft, something warm, something universal – something neither of us can ever forget

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