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Tuesday, February 19, 2013



My intention is amatorial;
my writings blend into a gossamer billet-doux.
Your position flickers between adversarial
and a besotted lothario.

I try to convince myself
that I am just a feminine roué,
fire & lightening, predatory & lewd -
yet that is not so.  I find myself
retreating from romance;
romance with others feels like debauchery.
My coquetry now feels hollow as a myth,
as Cupid, as broken and aged as a carriage wheel,
years drying me out like layers of mud. 

I am no wanton.
Lapidarious stripping of my heart
waits to complete penitence;
it cries to contact you.
My abortive attempts of wooing
cannot slip into the interstices,
cannot slip past your panoply of guilt. 

Jan 17, 2008

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