and I asked him
"do you love me?"
like shattering glass
his silken voice
drunk off sweet body carress
he said
"you're so beautiful."
stretched to run a hand
zigzagging down my exposed figure.
i cried.
- - -
This is more a memory and a fear than poetry. I know, it's a memory disguised as poetry!
I trying some new things, because Charles Bukowski is very inspiring.
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"Write with our backs to the wind and our faces to the hard, bleaching sun."