Tamie Gaudet

Sexy wears me like a scent.
Some days it traces itself
along a lobe and whispers
secrets until the flush of night
falls through me. Some days
it’s jealous of my jewelry
and lays claim to my throat
tracing my collar bone
with touches that strip me
of a spine. Some days it measures
the curve of my calf, comparing
it to the thigh above
before it rests its hand
on the small of my back
in a promise that always slides
lower. But most days
it’s there in cranberry toes
too impatient for slippers.
Barefoot at breakfast, topped
with the casual curl
of bedroom hair that drapes
a little smile that says the bed
is rumpled and still warm.

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