Bright blooms brushed the generous swell
of her breasts where the robe split wide
and welcoming, unburdened by thoughts of
modesty. The embroidery was new then,
flowers shaped from fire spilled upon
the sea. She tasted of salt. She
tasted like berries grown beside
the ocean. Nothing like you, all
earth and ephemera, all soil and
smoke. The thread's now thin and
dull, slanted like the morning light
slipping in behind you, and I wonder
if she and I might've lasted as long
as her robe has, but all I can
remember right now is that she
never fucked me like you do.