My fingers have slipped into her soft sepals,

creeping along her petals

like ladyfingers playing on a pure piano.

I have pulled her leafy dress down, slowly,

like an atheist turning the pages of a sacred book.

I have rested gently beside her

like a boy playing in Christmas snow,

waiting for some holy, miraculous light.

I have respected her, my flower!

My hands have played the guitar on her ribs

like a miner who has discovered

a golden wall in a faraway forest.

I’ve then disappeared

from her thirsty eyes,

like a happy crab walking along a vast

and desert beach during sunset

lest she would stick to my body

like the tentacles of an octopus

holding onto a wild boat

sweeping over a lake

containing the pieces of a broken religion.

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