The smell of forest lives in the tangles
of her hair. She smells of thrift store candles.
I can taste strawberry jam on her lips
her low rise jeans hang too loose on her hips

She wraps herself around my existence
and sways me back and forth in dance
Counting the freckles on each of her fingers
she leaves her lips on mine and lingers

She smells of a burnt sun
Her skin’s golden when her shirt’s undone
When she sleeps I listen to her heart
and silently remember, she’s just a piece of art