Friday, December 08, 2006

In This Bed

Through the screams
Can’t remember
The last time my body sensed
The sensation of another’s lips
Or the touch of hands
That stigmatized my nerves to the point
That the point was no longer,
And the screech and churn of an
Old bed
Was all that I could hear.
And I relaxed, as he relaxed
And I relaxed, as he relaxed
And the body maintained this warmth
That only realized the intentions once again…
And they would caress
The memories.
Of a love that I can’t recall
And hands, and lips, and dick that
I can’t feel…
And my memories
That are limited to only remembering.
But I now want to forget
Despite the urgency of the loins
Or the aches and moans of desperation
And things begin to soften, and his is a slower gaze.
I then realize my own discontents,
The misgivings in my decisions,
Such intentions.
Where my legs maintained this deviation
With the air, and the time and the motion of his tighs.
And I recall,
The firmness of his smile,
And the hazel of his eyes.
Such a brown, that could foster me,
And I think of him
It is where the memory returns,
In an attempt to realize him
And then again,
Try to forge him.
I curse my head for continuing him,
When instead
It all should end
In this old, screeching bed.

by Carolina Pichardo

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