Your face is like a marzipan flower,
which opens before me, sweet and sculpted
into a delicate delight
that I cannot help but bite into,
into you.
The lace on the table is stained
as I place you on top to unfold you
and take you in my mouth
in an unorthodox anticipation.
But you are the flower on top of a wedding cake
I cannot reach and cannot touch
and cannot breathe.
I cannot have you, but I can admire you from afar.
I cannot taste you, but I can imagine you each day,
and each night in between sleep and wake,
and each morning before the clock rhymes a chorus,
each moment I can be holding you in my hand
in a dream.
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