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Meet me on Fifty-Second if only for fifty seconds. Time to touch your face with my fingers, fingers that have traced you every night in my sleep, feeling your slopes and contours, smiles and winks, holding you in my heart. I breathe in your essence, your breath floating through me, through time until we reach full cloud above Mt. Olympus, waiting for the second star to the right, and the night wind to spirit us away. Our love's heat shields us as we blaze, a comet in the star shattered skies, a wishing star for ersatz lovers to sigh upon. I caress your cheek, taste your breast. Your sighs are my heady wine.

The heavens explode, pinwheeling.
I like you more than my guitar. It is mesmerized by your beauty. It sings for you everytime I strum it. I sing you, sing me, sing us.
Our kiss lingers, turning the moment into molasses as the world whirls about, singing with their secret street sounds, discordant yet so beautiful and ethereal, the zephyr sounds of the city weaving about our hair and curling into our breath. The kiss is soft and moist, and our teeth touch with the sound of a champagne flutes clinking together amid laughter in the bright star spackled night. That kiss tasted like honey,
soft sweetness on the tongue,
with an easy tar stickiness-
that melts slowly and gently,
in its own time.