Garden Mist
...and I want to start all my sentences with
the taste of his tongue.
I find him locked inside my rib cage
leaning softly against my heart
smoking a stogie and strumming bones,
where every thought of him is a losing
battle between good and evil that
I just don't truly want to win.
A garden of mist dripped wisteria
and criminal desire to cross all the
wrong borders to nymphet hysteria.
I'm afraid it might hurt a little,
this promise to make me a woman
again...
engrave his name on my spine
with a lovers knot of whispering pine
a seven year itch into ivy climb.
I want to know the sure feel of his lips
on mine...splashed on all the inner
walls of his surrender.
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