I’m only splinters and snakebites

the nervy pain that keeps restless company

a jumble of faded love poems

crammed into the back of a filing cabinet

in a folder titled someday

tomorrow is full of the j-cards

from mixtapes that never wooed a woman

notes on brilliant ideas

drowned in coffee or whiskey or wine stains

I run my fingers along the spines

of albums and books with a sensuality

of longing for a set of hips to caress

and the countless bonespurs

stop me from moving with grace.


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