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.
Miniature Moon 