The held blossom in the twitten
reminded me of sakura in Japan,
when we climbed Mount Yoshino,
(anami to Oku Senbon).
There I kissed your pencil lips,
which tasted of the last yatai,
where my fingers pushed into
the flowering in your thighs.
We had spread our picnic blanket
as the sun rose on the arc,
a place under cherry blossom
a private view across the park.
That held flower is the carrier
of my re-imagined returns,
to our fucks in Nara prefecture,
as the sakura blushed and turned.