Alphabet Soup Minuscule

The Laundry Maid


Candlebox punches me at 4:30 a.m. as if they were the windchills that haven’t come sneaking through my October windows yet. 

I’m only one eyed awake and cold, shag, in this bed of cinnamon flannel, unescorted.

I feel the sting of the shower on my collarbone, my dimples as I grin through the tears, the ululation.

I cannot tell the difference as I feel the droplets trickle down my aeriola, taking up temporary residence in my naval.

There isn’t enough soap to cleanse these parts.
To fill these voids within my core,
Of where you were yesterday.
Puling wildly as my tongue slid slow down your chest. 

My hair falling soft across you,
Like the flannel mess on my bed. 

Catching Breath

With you, upon these heights,

These peaks that surround my thumping  heart.
We stand, catching one another’s breath,
With our tongues and our hands.


You brace this fall before us,
With your chutes and your pads.

And I.

I fall like the leaves.
The snow.
The rain.

I fall like the baby Robin from her nest.
I fall to soar.
To feel the wind ripping through my hair
Kissing my cheeks pink.
As if it were 6 a.m. whispers between bodies.

Bodies laying soft, warm.
Except for the tip of a cool nose,
Upon the nape of a neck.

With you.

 I am. 

Letting go


And with you. 


Holding on.

Soft Spots 

The hunger for fidelity is like a
white flesh peach.
You grasp her shape in your palm and slowly, unresisted, bring her to mouth.
The soft feel of her fuzz against your lips leaves you in flames.

You press on her soft spots, her bruises.
And still…you crave her.
Want her like an addict needs his fix.

The first taste is sweet,
So, you hold onto it,              Carefully, softly.

Taking forgranted each bite thereafter,
Even though the peach still lay tight in your grasp.

 But now, you have taken something from her.
Something she, like the peach will never get back.
So, she leaves you with a pit.
And still.
You hold her.

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