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The Fourth Floor of Frenzy
A blunt fumbling of zippers and hooks,
traffic outside the apartment
stops being a distant sound,
becomes a pulse shared between two.
Discarded garments tumble over themselves
forever rejected, a kind of liberation,
yet we want only to be bound,
to be held hostage to this delirium.
A bed surfaces, breaking our fall.
Jostle, lever, flex,
blind movements in a broken clock.
Now the need, now the struggle,
now the mad claws
of an unquestioning passion,
while an enveloping breath
devours us both,
one gasp at a time.
Copyright ©
Eric Ashford
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