Monday, June 30, 2014


Her feet arched like orgasms
were trying to break out of her toes.
Body curving like coke bottles making
my mouth water for a sip of your wet kiss –
the thirst is real.
I know it was you landing sauté en
pointes in my fantasies the other night.
No woman nowadays is that
ballerina and stripper simultaneously.
Your voice was a purr that colored
in the carpet red for your catwalk
and I bet you ripped that without
even breaking a sweat.
True beauty is ageless,
but all I have is pictures of you
posing with cigarettes burning
and dimples to die for.
Ironically your a skeleton now buried
six feet deep beneath the ground I walk on.
But still I look up at the heavens
every once in a blue moon for traces of you.


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