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Sunday Night Supper
 by Aurora Antonovic

Food tastes better
When eaten while Iím nestled in your arms;
Even cold, day old rice,
Takes on a certain exotic flair
When you feed it to me,
With worn chopsticks
While I sit on your lap,
And lean against your chest,
And feel the softness of
Your favourite T-shirt,
While your beard tickles
My face.


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