there is a reason woman is shaped with the curves of an hourglass
the shouldered top in which rests the weight of threadbare words covered in the crimson paste on chapped lips
the ever-slimming waist the hips that hold our hands with fingers that slip between our cracked ribs and pull. tightly. inwards. to make it harder for that ****** sand to waterfall through
and the wide feet with train-track paths behind them that lead through middles of mountains fly over valleys of sugarcane and wildflower and beneath trenches woven deep in the ocean
there is a reason woman is shaped with the curves of an hourglass
that pale, fine time that slips from the tip of a rough tongue and through gritted teeth falls into the hollow bones of the hips, legs and ankles
at the moment time leaves her the sand is now full of chipped mountain rock sweetened with sugarcane colored with specks of yellow wildflowers and salted with kisses from the Atlantic.