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Gestation of Me.

She reaps
the full-sensory
field for me.

Leaving me empty.
Filling me up.

Tastes like baking
cookies, smells
of coffee,

nicotine and marijuana.
Smooth as silk, soft
as cotton-insulated
sheets,

her skin
against my calloused cast:
ugly, dilapidated,

So fucking humble,
so yes, yes:
skin and frame
fit for a fucking goddess.

Mine.
All mine.
Yes, she likes it.

Taking along
with me all I have built
and bled:

myself. My only friend
to the end. Was
it worth the ride?

Certainly.

Journey’s alive
not too deep inside
of them:

gestation
of me:

just another myth
evolving.

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