Sometimes in the mornings
the curly blonde hair
that resided on the top of her head
smelt like warm summer peaches
which at that moment were being eatin by small children
in our neighbours backyard,
along with sticky fingers and tall glasses of pink lemonade.
I would tuck my nose up next to the warm spot behind her ear
(switching ears from time to time
as to not make the other jealous)
and woud breath in her perfectness
as my eyes focused on the dust
dancing in the sunlight which shone through the window.
A sun which travelled across millions of miles of black emptiness
to illuminate her skin every single morning
for as long as she graces the world
with eyes so green, hair so blonde, and a body so small
that she would not look out of place
sleeping curled up on some forest floor.
She belongs to warm beds and morning times.

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