How does your hand feel on my neck, hot. My shoulder wants to guard it like a warrior, up to the ear. The bear warms it until it’s moldable. Drips down my side, which you prefer. My joints clamp around the bones which tighten my grip to the edge. You can’t pry me away I’m not ready. You made a wrong turn. The bitter burn of two day old coffee is on my tongue now. You taste it too somehow even though you never saw my mouth. You hear the song also, I don’t ask questions.
UNTITLED (MAY 2020)
in Misc