"This melancholy London - I sometimes imagine that the souls of the lost are compelled to walk through its streets perpetually. One feels them passing like a whiff of air. - W. B. Yeats

Sunday, October 3, 2010

This is Not an Innuendo

this is not an innuendo,
she suddenly whispered,
from under the covers.
this is not a come on.
this is the quietest cry out I can make.


Maybe on some level
I will always need
someone's hand
between my thighs.

Someone's mouth on mine-
for silence's sake.

No comments:

Post a Comment