I make no excuses for reposting this. It is one of my favourite poems to read aloud.
Well, I hear that you have been travelling
with a friend in an open-topped car,
and you revealed to him all your secrets
and you showed him your operation scar.
You painted his name on your mirror
with a lipstick glossy and red,
and you posed for imaginary photos
in the warm nest of your unmade bed.
He sent you a handful of spidery poems
that you captured with pins on your wall,
I read them when you were sleeping
and they seemed to make no sense at all.
Yet you recite them when you are bathing,
trailing your sharp nails over your thighs,
and you emerge mysterious and glowing
with a wild, vacant look in your eyes.
There is more to this than just attraction
or some strange late night trick of the light,
and you shouldn’t be reading his memoirs
in a dress that is so…
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