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nineteen: a poem i made in the bed whereafter we fucked

This night's whiskey
breath and yearning
Lingering immodestly
like a tattooed hand
fingering
The guttural conscience
as thick as morning
And I know I'll never
get enough of this
In your cheek the
softest flesh reminds
me of ingenue
In this kiss I
remain nameless
From this touch I
cave in
And one of your
silver rings, I be