you are paper-thin lightning
a sweet liquid baritone
the fluid pinging of a harp.
you are the sweet-smelling juice dribbling
down children's chins from the pulp of a skinned
peach.
you are as fragile as a marizipan Eros
whose warmth i cradle in the curve of my spine
the great Greek confection staring
with affably lung-numbing eyes from the backs
of my eyelids.
your armor is clean and undented.
no, no, no, no
you can't handle me.
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