Her
I was once all that a young man should be,
cloaked by a translucent bed sheet tossed over insecurities.
Somewhere between Mark Twain and Plato I grew a lust.
I stroked it with her beauty, and her legs with my desire.
There was need in her breasts, and joy in her hips.
My destine fell with “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Three weeks now I've sat by my phone
thinking her calendar was lost.
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