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28 September 2005 @ 02:42 pm
On that night when I touched your thigh, my veins felt as if they might burst. You took my hand, and held it on you, and let my finger weave a path up your hip bone, then seamlessly—shamelessly reach around. And we kissed, awkwardly and somewhat unkind—in betrayal all the traits that suit you.

Startled then lost, tangled in a swirl of homely smelling sheets that beg you not to leave me, I believe for a moment, if my arm goes far enough—and in this state, all your affairs don’t bug this confused little boy, because I had you, twice now somewhere fragmented and scattered throughout a dream.

But the state seizes me, and I know; If I reach out, I wont feel that path soft hair, the back of your head, the bumps that make your skull perfect to me, and every bit you try and hide inside—I know somewhere out there you sleep, undisturbed, by these thoughts that cascade through me.

I know your body is not here, and your shell is elsewhere, but I get to catch the things you throw away, and I have kept the bits and pieces of you in urns and bottles (for twenty-some odd years), hoping that I can stitch-and-sow you together, night after night, and have your hand to complete it—

And there you are, my beaten Adonis, my pugilist, punched in the soul, by everything you see, you naivety is so beautiful to me, and in a blind state of awe, you’re image of a halo shines bright above you. But I know you aren’t here, for me, when I wake up and want to see your face.
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