The Model-T stalls
on that flat, dusty road.
You take my hand.
Your eyes comb my face,
reaching for the moment.
The same sweltering Georgia air
running through your six-o'clock shadow
ran between my breasts.
The words were slow in coming,
though our hearts pounded
through our Sunday best.
º º º
Fingertips racing past,
flesh tingling at the danger,
breath dancing on a bare neck,
teeth grinding,
we cave.
My stomach cringes under your weight.
My toes curl at every stroke.
Kisses float beneath warm tear drops,
wrists burning on the seats.
º º º
As the Model-T starts once more,
afternoon gives way to stars.
The road ahead
seems almost shorter,
straighter –
unlike the path
laid down for me this morning.
What was simple before breakfast
has now turned taste.
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