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Satisfaction arrives expected
on my porch step, and he
raps his fist against the white door of
my spine. He waits, impatient, for me to let
him in so he can offer me
his sugarcoated gifts.
As he rings the doorbell, my
nerve endings sing, buzzing and
humming with Beethoven’s fifth.
I fish out a key from my
top dresser drawer, and after unlocking the pad-locked door,
I invite him inside.

He rushes through my vertebrae
trailing syrup and honey in
sticky patterns across my bones,
pouring a gentle stream of wine
into the hollow of my mouth.
Echoes of bird songs
follow in his wake
as he reaches to my toes and
splays them apart, reaches to my eyelids and folds them
closed, reaches to my cheeks and paints a
warm cherry glow with a matted paintbrush,
used and worn.

His visit, as always, is never enough,
and I watch, forlorn, as he slips from
my grasp. He walks out my door and
steps into the carriage of
his horse-drawn chariot. I sigh, entranced
by his too short stay, and
sure that he’ll return soon again.

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