When an Angst Writer Meets a Doting Writer

Where now, Pamela's eyes are wondering

too tired for 2pm, no pulse afternoon
half a car ride unconscious but not sleeping
too tired for Pamela's hair to be put in a ponytail wet like a single rose running through the flowerbed, When an Angst Writer Meets a Doting Writer ...
my bed
lying
bodies
touching
the first time
she is so thin like a little fleshy stick,
warm gush skin in the mist darkness and my bed sheets
later, cement slab, bent down, secrets, cigarettes, black night hush,
rest, life! bliss
brown and slinking bangs
I cannot sit under tonight perfectly
2am and I am closer to her body
with every word she speaks
and we are conversation fornicating
her bandanna, her light cream and caramel soft, froth forehead
2am and all of the other 2ams in our memory
dead?
and now sitting here in the blurred haze afternoon and inconsequential breeze
like a piece of flesh
that 2am has become memory now too,
hurting and healing in my alone mind
longing for some riverbank to leave from

(D.J.F. III 2017)

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