In dream I lean forward into the cup of your hands, just my breasts resting there, warm as the breasts of pigeons, or baked bread. In my dream this happens silently and without explanation and your palms receive me without comment. I might just be stretching, leaning across the cafe table for this one moment when all is hushed and the world has ceased to move. There is no explanation or continuation of a theme. I lean, you receive my breasts and cradle them wordlessly, and then I move away and slip them back into my low slung top. It might never have happened, but it has, in this dream.
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