Thursday, July 28, 2016

the blue room ...

the blue room ...

he sits in the blue room
his hands are
smudged with metaphors
that have dripped
from his fingertips
onto pages and pages
of poetry
lines of love
and passion
and sex
but none
that he remembers
now that he has
grown so much older
and still he waits
for that one
for that one
that only you could offer
if only you
would rip the clothes
off your body
throw your arms around him
and smush your breasts
into his face
and say something
instead of
simply offering him
a cup of Earl Grey tea
and a day-old biscuit




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