Saturday, September 23, 2006


And I sit next to him, sharing terracotta tile and plaster wall
just barely leashing the urge to run my fingers through the thick blonde hair on his arm.
Remembering the contrast, to the smoothness of his freckled chest.
I leave pink lipstick marks on his styrofoam cup of black coffee and wonder faintly, why I can't remember the name of the last man I slept with.

(© Alice Ginsberg)

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