This is life in pink, I said,

strawberry sweat on palms, 

sweetness dripping down chins.

Connecting the dots,

freckled cheek to freckled hip,

braiding legs 

until Love 

sets its glasses on the bedside table.

Overripe lips scrawling promises on chests,

fingers seeking the Braille left from fishnet stockings.

Messages on thighs,

on bellies,

around necks

that only he can decode.

Hands pressing dimples into flesh,

making mountains 

out of muffin tops,

pillows 

from spare tires.

His body curling

around the warmth

from parts of myself 

I always wished weren’t there.

No longer

made to shrink

or to squint—

only to blossom.

Stretching

our big bones

across the bed,

enough room for two

melting into one,

settling like

a blanket of blush.