Poet
Maybe I should be
the type that spends
countless hours in a dimly lit
coffee shop corner
looping my L’s
and stretching my Y’s
in description of the
Osprey’s glide or
the angry Atlantic
but I am not that poet.
I am the type
that writes what creates
in me flammability
like catching you staring,
heating my skin from across the room
in a matter of miliseconds
or
the words you place as carefully
as mines in a field, sending currents
of lust like electricity through my limbs
making me eager to be destroyed by you.
Yes
these things fill my white space,
more striking than the soaring Osprey
raging wilder than the Atlantic,
until neither it nor me are as
innocent as we once were.
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