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Bouquet

The moon rises as the blender runs
a body lying on the couch
spent, useless in languor.
The air smelled like sweat and cum, 
face glistening.
Stop. The blender's done. 

Cold, the fruit-smoothie as
I drink deep, spurring my thirst further.
I drink the sight of him in
relishing his ethereal scent,

ever wanting more.
I trail my fingers 
along his heaving chest.

Author notes

Bouquet as in the scent of wine. Another poem for my poetry class.

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