Wednesday, February 28, 2007

What She Said

Contrite and quiet she sat
robed entirely in black
no shades of grey
her sombre confessions
soliciting assistance

But her words were mine
down to the last syllable
her sins, my own
in bright lights
staring shamefacedly back

And now the beam
exposed, awkward and cumbersome
must be extricated
from the eye of my soul

All their stories
are strangely constructed
to fly in my face
splashing with cold precision
waking me
as I teeter on the edge

So I listen to what she whispered
"I will not be his Wednesday Night Slut"
And what of me?

Shall I forfeit
this midweek oasis of peril?
my desert is tired
of your mirage

I want to drown
to come up prune-y
and saturated
with you soaked
into every pore

I want to be wet
with your love


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