Erotica & Melancholia

~length of days~

They call it a return, an egotistic explosion—

something to be smelt, not touched

a softness 

that mirrors 

soft grazed sweet grasses, 

a leftover waft, a whirr

attached to sighs and steam. 

In confined sheets,

rain mimes woodpecker tongues two inches deep,

a pellet lingering in the cleft of your upper lip,

loosens my frame into angelic sleep, a jellied 

drip expands the hips, 

I am for the cosmos, ready for sleep. 

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