Why We Do It

November 26, 2011
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Your taste, thick like cotton in my mouth.
I want to memorize each startled gasp, each exhale.

Pretty, so pretty, you said, fingers winding through my hair
So pretty, you said, running a hand down my side
Pretty, you whispered into my neck

The wind slapped my face, burned it;

the trees, swaying, sighed knowingly;

and the earth wept, dampening the soil you laid me down on.

I am ashamed of your heat in me, your weight on me.

But one cheek pressed into the dead leaves,
a passive partner in your methodic dance,

I felt, for a moment,
a tiny, wonderful moment,

I felt almost pretty.

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