Saturday, February 02, 2013

Because



OF HER MIDNIGHT HAIR

Once while counting sheep
I got caught in 
the downpour of a dream
about the titanium needle 
of a woman's tongue
circling the groove of my ear.
Such is the melted logic of
moans, they kaleidoscope 
the conversation into
conch-like aphrodisiacs, 
places to sail off a cliff,
suspending the gravity of ecstacy.
Your voice felt woolly, not 
ashamed to be a sheep.
I thought I loved ewe,
but maybe I'm just a heroine addict.

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)
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