erbacce-press

Slippage

I was not the first to try
and find the source
of her slippage of heat.
Others had fumbled
through her body lit up
like a field of lighthouses,
crouching past a tiger
inked on her left thigh,
avoiding the topiary
between her legs. Nobody
guessed it was her eyes:
a pair of leaking vents
colouring the sky infra-red
with each drop of lost desire.

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