round

a scorpio full moon immersed in water. rising steam and libidos dreaming of plum juice trickling down moist bodies. a language spoken in finger tips. light soft enough to highlight the purple of bouganvillias above the bath.

in the absence of sex, sensuality becomes edible. i am still in the stone fruit season. i am peaches and nectarines, splitting and leaking juice across faces and hands. my soul becomes a small wooden centre. filled with life. waiting for sun.