It’s a dull ache in the front of my skull now.
There’s a perfectly good pumpkin pie outside,
Freezing on top of the little green vehicle
Which will be carried away before
Stringent, silent dawn.
The fire is just embers,
I’m drinking again.
Thinking again,
Staring myself in circles.
Stirring myself in hot circles.
I wear my hair
Loose down my back.
It curls up around my head,
Whispers of a happy home—
My hair, Medusa’s serpentine halo,
Betrays my most sumptuous secrets.
Rosy cheeks flush electric.
A single lock coiffed against my sticky cheek.
I miss giving you head,
Really good head.
The kind to make your head spin.
The slow, dizzy sparks of heat on my lower lip,
Pouting softly.
Everything about me soft,
Against the harshness of man.
The essential disinterested Mr. Darcy of Austen’s fancy
Does
Not
Exist.
A ticking clock against my tongue,
A beseeching whimper,
The arching of spines,
And the sudden loss of cabin pressure—
The sound of the door as you close it.
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