untitled #510

sheets pulled up
over his head,
rocking to a cadence
no one else can hear,

she is in every
movement made,
a circular reference
on a perfumed breeze,

fingernails dragged
through empty space
catch on a dust mote,
rip a gash that
weeps time
over their faces,

they wallow in it
as if it might
might dry up and
leave them gasping
for more,
far more,
more

— GB

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