Rubenesque

Love made, you twist your flesh into a portrait of the women men used to objectify.

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You are fecundity, The Empress, harvest; bearer of new life, symbol of lost desires.

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You are the secret wish of so many – yet are blind, still, to the bounty of your body.

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Behind you, a bright rectangle of morning; sky bluer than any sea you could long for.

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Were I a painter, this is how I’d frame you: the corals in your skin on the egg-white clouds.