A sonnet should be scandalous, why not?
What should I call you, love, if not my peach?
Veiled, hidden innuendos, guarded speech...
Remember how we'd nearly gotten caught,
the Henny, Swiss fudge cookies that you’d brought,
my ancient clunker parked right by the beach...
That silly day seems safely out of reach,
and yet my mouth still waters at the thought...
How precious was your each and every touch.
The endless wait between those seaside trips...
Our hands in search of anything to clutch.
Your shallow breath and crimson, pouty lips.
Did we find paradise, well, not as such,
but enter it we did, between your hips.
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