If ever my vernacular should fail me,
toss me aside like yesterday's garbage, I
want you to remember that every fixed moment I gave
allotted six years of masturbation material, perhaps one
silken pair of panties pressed sweetly to your thigh.
Ordinary girls never did it for you, this was whispered
nightly, a lullaby of falseities, nice in their flattery, but
lingering a taste to remember how many extraordinary
young ladies you knew; you hunted them,
and so did I.
Perhaps this is why perfection blossomed, perhaps
ancestry had something else to do with it, or
perhaps it was only the flash of an ankle,
entrancing that dance, but please dear, don't
rip apart looking for
meaning, you simply won't find it here.
opening mouths hungry for life, yes
or a head tilted towards a favored star but
not enough to a build a heart from scratch.
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