Dear Young Man,
I saw your skin smooth like the fountain of youth,
pouring down your river,
your delicate body of water.
Your body is a peach,
a firm seed planted in your centre,
ready to harvest in the soil of fertility.
I once took your age and manipulated it.
My skin was an innocent organ,
but my mind played ignorant instruments
and I danced to drums,
too drunk to
notice hands like yours, trembling
down my back side,
searching for my treasure.
I was a golden egg, cracking over a camp fire,
cooking from the inside, out, flirting
with the fruit of the Earth,
and now, Young Man, I feel naivety drip from
your skin, mixing with my worn complexion as
I grind against your skin,
searching for your core,
back ward in time.