Shower your love with white flowers. Drape her shoulders in wreaths of fragrance, take care to notice if a blossom nuzzles her clavicle, a drowsy bee in the flagrant magnolia flower.
Whisper in her ear, ‘You smell like the heady gale off mown grass, your hair is an intoxication of pittosporum.’ It’s an Aboriginal thing, it’s a whitefella thing, it’s called sex and how it begins and lasts. Lasts as long as you notice the nodding faces of orchids or the perfume-drenched pittosporum.
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