I’d hold your hand
trace my finger along the crook of your elbow
to the curve of your shoulder
the hills and valley of your chest
the slope of your neck
to the tussles of your soft, cinnamon hair.
I’d hold your hand
trace my finger along the crook of your elbow
to the curve of your shoulder
the hills and valley of your chest
the slope of your neck
to the tussles of your soft, cinnamon hair.
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