Tonight, I write about poetry.
Poetry that we made together at night.
That night you undressed, your pleasures now naked and I did stare, not at the geometry that is your curves. That math that fucks up my mind.
Before I left fucks inside.
Before I gave enough fucks to know you, and not in the sexual kind. Though that is to be expected of course, but I mean the rest.
And by the rest I mean her,
like that goldfish swimming in her bowl, freely not caring about whose eyes were watching.
But mine, right then, taking in her definition that is woman.
She’s well defined.
Like those panty lines I contemplated which side to push, before she pushed me away, before she let some body else in.
My other head was throbbing to the idea of being inside.
The words eating at my flesh like mosquitos in the night, in spite of this I told no lies.
But only that I would leave her essence satisfied.
I came on her thighs.
My seed on her thighs.
Again not sexual.
Because those seeds were my cries, tears shed because she’d told me about her broken life. And of course she’d have tried to fix it with sex and kisses.
But that tingle I felt that night was about that first time I met her, in that corner of that bar. Self concious about her weight.
She’s a medium now.
But she told me about her friends, that said she’d never out weigh her grades, because she already out weighed the crowds.
Out weighed the crowds.
Out weighed their crowns.
Her highness seated on her thrown.
That is I faced her head on, like a kid she loved her shapes said she wanted another round so she could chase away those ghosts. Ghosts that made her taste sounds,
Shes asleep right now,
her breathing poetic, it’s like the crickets hear her sing.
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