Friday, November 09, 2007

Untitled



Making Rodins with the duvet
The pale length of you
Unfurled like rope, binding me to the bed
Being my girl
I was your glove, wrist deep, a red pulse.
Hand in hand, the perfect dark of your kiss,
You found me abandoned in night-time doorways.
You stuttered - I am stuttering, interrupting
The bleak texture of a policeman’s overcoat opening old wounds
and an elegant wilt, leaning against a wall.
You were my girl, never man enough for me.



Heidi James

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