There is this place that I go to in my head when
even the walls seem to be screaming.
Where you and I are quiet and I
have your hands
counting the vertebrae
counting the moans I make
and the scent of your skin drifts into my pores.
Where the light is a darker shade of blue than
I have ever seen and I am free to speak
my needs at my leisure.
Where the world goes soft and quiet;
dim but not yet dark; the eveningtide
of cumuli clad in blush and indigo
and not much else; the indecent hour
chimes in with the muffliato of musculature
and the patterned click of settling bones.
Bikes have been haphazardly tossed like iron
confetti across the lawn where two lovers take
a stroll to confess a day’s worth of sin and sainthood.
It’s like I wished for you.
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