March 1, 2012
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The barn.
Maybe that's where it started.

On a tarp covering rotting, soggy wood.
With you wrapped around me,
Sucking on pale skin,
Leaving purple marks,
Smiling, knowing you'll be on my mind later.

The barn.
Maybe that's where it should end.

Among paper plates, caked with slime,
And a tipped over wheel-barrow.
Laying in your arms.
Happiness? Love?
Or satisfied lust
On both our parts.

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