Skin dances
at the end of fingertips,
in rhythm with each exhalation.

Every stroke an exultation:
a waltz, a samba – – – rock and roll.
Drumbeats invade all senses.

A smile indexed,
not misfiled in memory.

The rooms cloaked in a breeze as you stroll by,
fetch from the zephyrs on your morning walk,
crisp sunlight.

Lips taste of cinnamon and butter.

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