A madman’s creation, she is—a hybrid
At once, both, wolf and bitch.
She fills the red corners of my eyes
Even when she is not there. I feel her
Nails grip the flesh over my clavicles
Like rusty hooks. My thighs are solemn
Between hers, wood gripped to stillness
By a tender vise. Her tongue
Grates like sandpaper but can weave itself
Into a swirling tapestry of silk. Nothing I can do
Will ever be enough. No amount of silence
Can assuage her sonorous waves of pain.
But when she says I am yours,
Orange butterflies alight on my eyelids.
And the unbearable longing is over.
The dusty apologies that will never come
Take wing for one bitter, blesséd moment,
Then are gone.
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