How many notions, ravenous, in my pocket. Fingers run the hem, hidden seams of my thigh. Hook and eye of my own making. Clavicle, waist, sinews unfold between midnight and morning. Promise me curve and sweet-tuck, backstitch the September of my body. In a small room, in a country I can’t call home, we are monsoon-eyed and wanting — let ourselves believe in mythology of thunder and raw edge. Unleash our mouths like moths. Estás bien buena. Yes, I am silk and slit. Sea filament. There is nothing like wreckage of strangers in the dark, each other’s quickened breath warp and weft.
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