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My first kiss
was the sunrise;
arching its knees
on the boughs of the earth
to greet my lips with
golden passion,
and pastel rays,
like the inside of a seashell,
Or the fuzz of a
not-quite-ready peach.
It kissed and pecked
each cheek.
Each shoulder.
A dozen times.
Each freckle a promise
that it would be back shortly,
and rise to find my lips again ...
and again, and again
round my collar bone,
like a strand of burnt pearls,
dangling from my skin.
Courting jewels.
Or cursed reminders of
my only love.
The sunrise leaves me restless,
these marks whisper to me through the night,
"Wake girl!"
"Watch your window."
"Greet your love as faithfully as he rises for you."

My last kiss will be
the sunrise.
For I stubbornly refuse
to die
under those distant stars,
when my love is simply round
the other side,
waiting to greet my freckled skin.

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