I am creating art.

My eyes paint you as
you undress, trying to fit
which part goes where.

I imagine my hands touching
you in tones of cerulean
or perhaps viridian.

You speak of love, but
charity is a fickle mistress
and we are both for sale.

Abed, we won’t speak as
you press your hips to mine;
and I will wait for you
like stretched canvas.

04/25/2010

Posted on 04/26/2010
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