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currency and confessionals

Sheer  scarves cover the

lamp beside the bed as

daylight slips through

the open French doors

igniting  walls of burgundy.

Her hair fans out on pillows,

eggshell limbs are caught in loose binds.

She is the red of womanhood,

her breasts,  alert gazelles.

Guileless eyes the shade of currency,

her  mind becomes  his confessional

and there is no sin grave enough.

Written by hollyrene
Published
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