My thighs are a miracle of alabaster silk blooming like a rose. My secret scent is rose, vanilla, and extravagance. The language of flowers flows monthly through the corridors of my core. Essentially, I am his dream he holds at night as he sleeps on a game trail by an angry river. Soft, yielding, sublime, and barely real. I press my faintly glowing flesh against him, warming him. He’s got a letter only my envelope can mail.

My body is a twirly slide. My body is as soft as a spring day. Stars are woven in my hair, holding my mind back from coating the universe in glitter. Women stitch centuries together in parlors of pearlescent priorities. They always have. I run my personality through the hoop that doubles as a halo in low light, my backbone embroidered on a cream color cheese cloth.

Raw reality sizzles over the thin blue flame of my imagination, charring some facts and leaving other truths underdone. In my celestial home, I sweep stellar crumbs off my dining room table and wipe down the windows with tears. I have velvet covered books on stargazing in my shining foyer, and guests from universes of universities. Light belongs to me. Darkness siphons off my life day by orbiting day. Malingering suns pierce the authenticity of cold.