Mouths And Stomachs

These poems left me your brown hair
to sift through.
Which poems?
Who’s hair?
Who’s hair has fallen for the evening?
Who’s hair itches my face?
Leading on sorrows.
Always, always you’re leading on sorrow.
What a wrinkled textured tongue
could tell about feelings
and the cultures of lactose
on the inside.
Cultures on planets.
Fighting between them.
On the inside was too much.
I held you.
Felt you.
On the inside.
Not the kind of adults.
But the kind between two humans
reduced to their childhood reflexes
because the sun has continued to come
and nothing has changed.
Nothing has changed us.
We still need love
and still need to be loved
with our respective still and stoic eyes
and the flora in our quite different
mouths and stomachs
that
function with the same hunger.
The same want.
The same gastric acid.
The same exposure to the elements and world.

The things left to the desert.

The want.
The want.

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