I Loathe That This Is All I Can Write About

Lets sway together, figure of eight
with my hips. Dip into my mouth. It’s all about
the way my head solidifies,
solid weight blinding my ability to see
anything but you. Tunnel vision.
I need more precision when it comes
to the people who walk barefoot on my kitchen tiles,
in the morning. Those I give bagels.
They will see me bra less, far less
perky than originally planned. Doesn’t fit in your hand.
But the edge of your face cuts a nice shape when you lay
on them. And I worry my hearts trying to hard
to catch up, against your eardrum.


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