She Echoes
Warming up to the sensual murmur
of a predawn dream.
It was a wave troubled night
the cold-grizzles
bent thoughts into driftwood shapes.
She echoes,
her body heat can almost be seen.
Who she is, is a writhing question mark
beneath squeezed-shut eyelids.
An ******** pumps images into flesh,
an overused past simulates
composite likeness’s.
Erotic hothouse flowers bloom,
yet they are only skin deep
and wither too soon.
Legs are swung over a shipwrecked bed.
Head and face rubbed hard,
jaws chew air, shreds of brain fuzz hang
before they empty-out and fall.
Not turning the kitchen light on,
hands flat on the cold breakfast counter,
shoulder blades moving up and down -
still trying to shake her off.
A last image of her floating face down
in an unwashed coffee mug.
In a shadowy sink,
gently
I wash her away.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2023
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