On my Bed Thinking About
You
If I could touch
without hurting you
I would run all the way to the river
and back.
But nothing has changed.
You are voiceless,
crouched
in some long-forgotten childhood
hiding place,
a dark jungle where every tree
looks like every other tree.
I long for your scent,
your knees pushing against
my thighs,
but what is asked for is often destroyed
by the very words that seek it.
My bed is a fossilized prison
where I learn to make love to you forever.
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