I didn't want him in that way then.
We drove black midnight country roads, music blaring, songs exchanged like bartering for trinkets of closeness. We drove orange flickering back country roads talking until the streetlamps slept, bartering for trinkets of close companionship. I went home to somebody else at dawn. We talked until the streetlamps slept. He sketched my hands with his eyes one night. I went home to someone else at dawn, still feeling his skin trace my oyster shell knuckles. He held and sketched my hands at night, music blaring, songs exchanged. I feel his fingers trace my oyster shell skin. I didn't want him in that way then.
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I am a demagogue.
I study your written and empty pages and bibliograph your desires. With a turner I flip your resting heart to observe that side which is buried in earth. Progressive, I hunt for right moments in time to slowly reveal the obvious fact that I am exactly what you've always hoped for. Until the next one comes along. And then, I become him. **This was written in a creative writing class in ten minutes after being given the following words with which to craft a poem: turner, demagogue, bibliographer, progressive. |