Redux
Over and over, repeated re-injury of the senses.
It’s what we had.
Dressed in our despair, bonded by pain.
It’s what we shared.
We twisted and contorted, struggled further to gain control.
It’s how we fought.
Every prick of the conscience drained another abscess.
It’s how we learned.
Giving up was not an option.
It’s how we lived.
Originally posted 7/11/2018 on I Write Her
Hours spent pressed into your body.
Attached at your hip.
Held strong, and with desire.
Swaying, dancing with love.
Your fingers gentle but bold.
Moving up and sensuously down.
Eliciting whispered praises to you.
Always giving, more.
Easy to pick up.
Harder to put down.
I wish I were a guitar.
Over and over, repeated re-injury of the senses.
It’s what we had.
Dressed in our despair, bonded by pain.
It’s what we shared.
We twisted and contorted, struggled further to gain control.
It’s how we fought.
Every prick of the conscience drained another abscess.
It’s how we learned.
Giving up was not an option.
It’s how we lived.
I Write Her 