Stung
Stung
Is it cupid’s arrow that pierces my skin
or a bite I cannot scratch
some infernal gnat whose power I’m in
I think of all the ways we do not match.
How easy now to walk away
and yet his voice echoes in my head
his touch, his lips, the memories stay
I want him back and in my bed.
Copyright © Michele Fermanis-Winward | Year Posted 2025
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