Yet

by on May 5, 2018 :: 0 comments

You are not my lover, yet
you trace my body with your pencil tip,
like making paper dolls, and promises:
the parody of kiss
without the kiss.

This must be what seduction is:
the heat that builds and builds,
the body’s angry fist.
Your words, like scissors, snip
and snip, along the lines we’ve drawn,
their eager sillhouette.

You are not my lover, yet
I stroke your stories with my finger tips,
like making pottery and statuettes:
the parody of flesh
without the flesh.

This must be what seduction is:
The cup that fills and fills,
the spill that’s always wet.
This need, like hot air, spins
and spins and spins. You
are not my lover, yet.

editors note:

Hard to step back and take a breath, when breath has already been taken (away). Got to admire such restraint! – mh clay

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