I have to wonder
what kind of man he
is
that she would
surrender to him
after so many men have
done the same for her,
sex to die for,
magnificently churched up into love,
the lips, his lips,
she continues to kiss
deep into her dreams,
her bed made warm
by the sheer memory
of him,
his fingers on her,
his chest pressed up
against hers,
his deep breathing
softly
singing her to sleep,
feeling him against her,
so steady she could set
the world’s clocks by him,
and yet, there only when
she dreams of him,
and remembers his
scent
and his feel,
remembers how safe she felt
with him there,
and how vacant
she is now that he isn’t,
a haunting presence she can’t exorcise,
won’t,
needing it, him,
like she needs life
itself,
desperate to know
if he is the ghost or
is she?
No comments:
Post a Comment