Monday, January 5, 2009

Ode

A misrepresented footsie underneath 
the shared table at our first dinner 
after the fact. 
Chin turned downward; 
and to look through eyes 
and one strand of fluffy hair caught in your eyelashes. 
This is what it feels like to be used up, the last
Bit of oil in the bottom of the bottle, barely 
Enough. 
I search for empty eyes through the gray light 
of the early morning. They find me there, 
naked with my body twisted and pinned between
your sleeping body and the cold wall. You rest
Silently upon the puff of your mattress. The quilt
rested down, but didn't cover your feet;
Twitching.

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