Two Parts

1: Morning

You,
walking in here full-frontal—
no declaration,
no warning.
Just being you
being with me,
nude.
Because you can.
Because to drink coffee
in one’s skin
is nice
is honest
and a bit of kiddish fun because
it’s against the rules out there.

And because I look.
Six years hasn’t changed that.
I look, and sometimes I
look
and say the Great Masters
carved marble men
far inferior to you.
If art is true,
I feel sorry for the ancient Greeks
and their tiny,
leaf-covered penises.

2: Evening

Me,
tracing small circles along your spine
the way you taught me,
forefingers and thumbs
press deep into the smooth muscle,
teasing kinks,
easing rigid nerves.
I am no sculptor.
I am not shaping you
with small circles,
but merely reminding you
what you already are…

Beneath the pressed grins
and crimped postures
that attempted to wear you today.
We strip these external superfluities
not just for sex
or games of intent,
but to be
nothing else
than what we are.

You, Me.

Cora Saydh

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This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to Two Parts

  1. mzpresser says:

    Beautiful

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