1:27 am

1:27 am

Once
I asked him,
My voice small,
Inconsequential as a
Late-night dream,
If we could be anything
More.

He said,
Index finger carelessly
slithering over bare skin,
That he didn’t like
My hips.
As if they killed babies,
Erected cold concrete dams.

But oh
How he doesn’t mind,
In the evenings
Bathed in hot darkness,
The fingers that gently twist
Short hairs at the
Nape of his
Neck.

Doesn’t mind
The hands that
Smooth across
Hollow, snakeskin shoulders,
Down hairless trails.

Doesn't mind being
Embraced by the
Same warm, sprawling flesh,
When he is coiled
Between my knees.