finesse pumps harder than
blood as his fingertips
light
and burn me up like stubborn cinder
the shadows i cast villanize
the vulgar
angles of his spine
(the one i barely see unless i’ve downed enough gin)
i thoroughly memorize
the hard lines
embossed upon a child who cried
and laughed much too hard
over nothing
there’s a love on his face
and i’m forever waiting for
syrupy nothings to flow from
those perfectly pursed lips
the blindfold he thinks he’s
fastened all too skillfully
around my eyelids
still let me see
the birds caught in the rain
still worshiping the sky
for keeping them free
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