Friday, July 27, 2012

Smooth

We’re nibble-close
in our sheet-strewn bed
on a Wednesday
while Jackson is sleeping.

It’s dark outside
and we spend most of the time
staring into each other;
I tell you that your blue eyes
are the stuff of poetry.

I run my fingers through
your long brown hair
just because I know
you will slide your body
closer to mine.

I admit,
that my work began to suffer
from the moment I met you
and that I was wrong
to have told you
during our honeymoon
that I could never be happier
than I was right then.

I tell you that I became aware
of this mistake the first time
I saw you nursing Jackson
and had just become aware of it again.

You whisper in my ear,
I love you, Danny.
But you’re lying on my hair.




Snakeskin Poetry Webzine - August 2012

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