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Sticks and stones may break my bones
But whips and chains excite me
So tie me the bedpost master
**** me ride me bite me
There is no bottom of my heart
Tis deeper than any sea
There is no shallow area
No risk of judgement
Trust me I have explored
My limits set my standards
I have been adrift so long
I forgot what land looks like
If you ever search for me..
Close your eyes and peer
Into my heart youll find me
Lost in an ocean..
Floating on a door
And thats just fine with me
At least while im adrift
I can feel the love
I so desperately want to give
To that special somebody
Before it dries up..
And I drown
Face down
In the last cup of love..
I have to offer.
What I love about you floats through my head,
and I realize that every moment I’ve ever loved has transpired in your bed.

A lot has happened there, in your room with the dark shades:
talking, crying, laughing, sweating, screaming—all in your bed.

The same things over and over, better and better,
Each time we would lie there, together, in your bed.

Sleep is in the past, no sleep for us would last.
I don’t think I’ve ever been fully clothed in your bed.

I’d wear a lot of red, and black, for that matter,
two small pieces of cloth that were quickly lost in your bed.

I like to think about the milestones—not the ones at restaurants,
not the birthdays, nor Christmases—but the ones in your bed.

The first time you told me you loved me,
surprise, surprise: we were lying in your bed.

I miss the talks, the cries, the movies we watched,
the countless hours we spent, holding each other in your bed.

The physical—my favourite—the naughty, naughty
things we've done: I wish every one of them happened in your bed.

Some were in mine, but they didn’t fulfill the same thrill,
even in mind-blowing places, I wished we were in your bed.

Your bed is cold and hard—a place I would never want to sleep alone.
As you could have imagined: I don’t love the plain thing that is your bed.

I love that it smells like you, that it’s where you fall asleep:
these are the two things I like best about your bed.

A bed is sacred to a person and I love that you've invited me into yours.
I could imagine that you miss mine, and I miss mine too, but my bed is not your bed.

I miss you as I write—don’t get me wrong,
but the thing I want most right now is to be with you in your bed.
My first attempt at Ghazal Poetry
[A prose poem]

I see a palm reaching out for me, from the pitch black.
     I try to sleep and close my eyes, but I still see this palm, trying to cover my face or scratch the skin it hates– I close my eyes and I still see it.
I know where this palm came from.
     I know it from the time the backdrop was not dark, but a horrid party at a lonesome house where I had too many shots. I know this palm will try to take whatever it wants, and it’ll crook its fingers and slide wherever it pleases, without caring to come back to my face when the tears roll down; it does not care to treat them, it does not care to wipe them. It does not care.
     Its been more than a year now, and still I go to sleep and think of hands. Of the word “no”, and how useless it is, just like trying to get some good sleep now. I close my eyes and try to forgive every one of those fingers.
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