venetian, blind
The tangle of ourselves so sweetly executed
gathers me back to the acting shadow of you:
eyes closed, whispering my name
softly as sandpaper - heavy grain.Once, we'd make this pilgrimage
each musky night and more,
my nails naturally honed on your skin,
your voice practiced as often in moans
as reasoned conversation.Tonight, your sex-scratched voice
excuses you from bed:
"You were so good, I need a smoke,"
and I, with mastered duplicity, reply,
"My eyes rolled so far back in my head,
I have to fish my contacts out of my brain."Once, we found propriety difficult,
called out in hot words and I burned
my fingerprints onto your skin.
Now, blandly seeking terms,
"smoldering" seems too hopeful.
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written works © April Palleria, 2002