On the sighs of the clock,
past midnight I recall
once more that this skin has not been touched
not caressed, left unloved for the sake of savoring
the minute for someone else
other hands, long lean fingers
that know too little than touch
know too much to keep in words, coded
desire, a swril of a tongue over
parts. I have told you that this body
is not my temple, nor yours,
not anyone's in fact, I am no shrine
to hang your incense, rub your wishes
hand you a coin over my hand
or even prevent my barren soul of inviting
a child between my ribs, pushed under my thighs
not much left for you to savor,
give me a hand to caress, I will send you away
with the ocean, kneeling at your fished out
feet, full of sand, damp on the edges
never owned, not gracefully obtained
this body, one, mine and yours.
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