Thursday, December 15, 2011

On my Bed Thinking About You


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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