august first

three hours later,
still stilled by sensation
creeping up the sides of my skin
to the undersides and down again,

worn to a smooth glow
by your battering hips,
warm from your hands
shaping pleasure from the frame
of my bones– weaving this weak-kneed
wanton on my osteo-loom,

i sit sleepy and silent against the bed
in the exact spot where you pushed
so much sweetness through
to my spine.

i am a shudder, a shiver
a shake syrupy with languor,
inspissating and indolent;

wrapped in waiting shadow
for the press of your palms,
i ache myself to sleep.

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