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Immune
Your fingers blister
though you barely brush my neck
as you slide aside my hair,
nibble soft flesh.
I sigh,
press myself against fevered flesh.
Gentle bites down my neck
make me want to
taste the sweetness of your skin.
It burns my lips and hands
as you tighten your hold
on me.
Your pale lips invade mine,
but you cannot infect me with your love.
I have grown immune.
Just A Joke
Eyes contemplate
the departing promenade
from stalking distance...
It's just a joke,
a little amusement
to pass the time,
he says.
Besides,
she wants to be
watched;
that's why she
walks
on public sidewalks.
At 12, I learned
to hug schoolbooks
to my chest;
keep the assholes
from copping a feel
when I walked to class.
Mother insisted
the word "virgin"
didn't belong on my lips,
'cause the neighbors said
it couldn't.
Years later, it was
black eyes
when I looked at
the person I spoke to;
all women do is
flirt.
Three stitches in my lip
for walking outside;
I'd wanted to be looked at
by people I didn't know
where there.
He laughs
at his little joke.
I tell him we have
different ideas
of what's "funny."
Precision
His hands strike the strings
with stoic precision --
not dramatic flare
or the sensual play
of days past.
Passion replaced
with the inaccurate need
for preciseness;
meaning replaced
with mere competence.
Love lost, but not
missed.
Order and correctness
the age old replacement
when the hand gets slow,
heat fades.
Passion slips
into plastic precision
unnoticed.
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