Some Fine Wine
As I sip,
A burning slithering between my throat and belly,
Thoughts whisper,
Wrapping themselves around the
Thumping heart.
No one -nothing-
Can do that.
Yet it aches;
The burns surrounding
The pulsing flesh
Of my stomach.
Is it heated with desire?
Sometimes after, it can come to pass,
And I find my mind
Trudging in the darkness;
Slightly warped-
Tattered,
But still;
The individual remains.
And then, (perhaps)
Whatever it is
That gives me reason to be more than just skin,
Is touched only slightly-
Like sand between toes,
Silk against cheek,
A burn in the belly-
And my mind tosses itself into a pit.
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