"ah, the desire, ah, the writing..."
Writing past midnight as usual
I enter a poem with one idea,
end up writing another.
You are already asleep for hours.
I lie down beside you, reach out.
You hold my hand for a while,
then fall back to sleep, snoring.
My breasts are round as similes,
each nipple an exclamation point,
vagina warm as a slant rhyme,
my hands and fingers are verbs.
I come quietly beside you,
a flutter of breeze, a small wave.
My body freed of words,
your breath lulls me to sleep.
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