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Those few days speeding on me
Like a slow cooker within my core
causing a dull rhythm between my legs.
The days the cold grows tougher
skin and the warmth of a fleece
does not quite cover.
The days the yarn for a lover’s arms
makes me curl like disturbed slug.
The moments when a brush against
my breast becomes the start
of a wild fire raining slimy
gel down my inner tube.
But I must not wade in the sea of love
This is trick of mother nature,
Feeling my belly with hunger
Just as the forbidden apple tree blossoms.