you are not my hips cracking
bone-crushing soul-wrenching ache
in the pit of my being
and you are not sweet harmony's forehead
pressed to mine lost
in the universal theories of music
between two girls,
you are not under my skin,
in my blood, my cravings at midnights
or my cries in dreams
you are not my pride,
my joy, or my whiskey morning's kiss.
You are not hands to the floor,
back-bruising instantaneous
wall-clutching,
you are not the force of an orgasm
when the boy next to me has
finally dropped to dream's bullets,
and you are not in my heart of hearts.
But I'm going to keep you all the same,
in the smile behind my eyes
and the rhythms in my toes,
the larynx-tearing pitch.
You will be my song,
when my voice has finally run out.
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