Dear Oliver,

Through the shaky cold sweats of my withdrawal

I saw your thundery childish old eyes

Looking at my nails on the Belgian coffee cup.

I saw your frown so I painted them

the color of wine made in the countryside

for our 7 o’clock date on the edge of the bed.

Violet is good for us, violet is power.

We don’t want to be reminded of the mad

yellowish time on the far end of the black beach

when you just did not want to leave me.

It’s safe here.

You read my craving better than you read my words.

Or my thighs.

No matter how hard I scream or how long i keep quiet

This tie never gets broken.

The brown freckles you draw on me keep tying it harder.

The knot is made of pleasure and all its possibilities.

 

M.

 

 

 

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