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Early morning.
Wet.
Damp clothes, steam rising,
Recorded in sequence–
played back again.
Then once more again.
Once more to yes.
Coming in fresh,
leaving torched.
Touched.
before the sun comes up —
Before
where your hands ran
the roadmap of every curve
of flesh clothed and naked
Fevered hands cupped
the horizon line
You were blind for the touching.
Over and under,
palms remembering
as though it was the last time
they would be there,
rounding the wide oval of my ass,
then back upwards, anchored there
in accidental, unpredictable electricity.
Only words don’t come.
Once again the hands dive back down
Up the side,
down the back, around and up
and back down.
No borders or roadsigns,
no speed limit.
Just the light on the road
taking us there. Again.
And Again.