Textures #31

half asleep your fingers tremble as they map a route to nowhere

one by one you follow the moles scattered like constellations on my skin 

and like fine muscat with your rousled hair beneath the sheets

the scent of honey at dawn intoxicating as you breathe in

“The fortnight at Venice passed quickly and sweetly – perhaps too sweetly; I was drowning in honey, stingless”

Brideshead Revisited

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