stretching skin as he’s snaking down my body
supple in the somber slivers of moonshine
seeking spots where few seldom go
the slippery slope he sweetened so
with determined dexterity arisen
from such damning desires.

he lacks, your lover as a liar,
his living laced only with lust
so you strain the secrets out
to maintain a modicum of trust,
stymieing a semblance of self
with the knowledge that for this, you must.

now at the café,
all carcinogenic
you meet at your table
to start a conversation
that’s less of a chat
and more of a fable
could we be in love
or are we both fundamentally unable?


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