I felt your naked skin press
against my ear like violets
curling inward, speaking
its own color onto itself.

You slipped with roaring ease
against my boneworn morals,
questioning their sunset hues.

And as each quiet finger
tasted my abdomen, you
let your skin clothe itself
in my morning stubble.

I will never forgive you
for the way night fell,


but for this, I thank you.

04/18/2007

Posted on 04/18/2007
Copyright © 2024 Bob Arcania