after he fucks me
there’s this smell, an aroma like…
well like bread fresh-baked,
soft and warm and dry and a little sweet
and my legs are tired like i’ve been running
(from being molded into contortions beyond my consciousness)
and my heart is slow like a high, sleepy
my mind still yammers
and he’s dressing again which pisses me off–
i want to lay here skin to skin–
but i say nothing.
he’s done; i’m still hungry,
but i drink in the sight of his satiation
and say to myself,
this is enough.


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