Poetica 30

She invited me as the sole curator to her gallery.
Bedsheets turned tablecloths, a meal about to be served.
Bra straps fell off like loose banners as her hands clung to the wall.
Her centerpieces arrived to the party as I ballooned in my boxers.

My party hat almost on, she insisted on a delay for the blowers.
Thirsty but no drinks, she directed me to the cake.
A lick of the icing but my target was the cherry at the top.
Her lips then lit my candle, her blowing only made the flame brighter.

Lost in the enchanting taste of her ice cream.
The pleasure unbearable, I screamed.
Her legs matched the bed frame shaking, our painting unsteady.
In our birthday suits, our brains exploded like confetti.

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