The sun's kisses sprout plums on her neck.
Small purple fruit dime sized and too ripe,
Like the skin they lie on,
Dripping with honeyed saliva and love.
Sun's mouth coated in so much sugary sap it makes her sick to even breath the same air as him.
His nectary tongue, that's pollinated a forest's worth of flowers.
With that rancid mouth, and guava-soft gums he grows plums on her satin skin.
