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I wanted to know the sighs
Of mercy.  On the bed she lied,
Laid bare in the shocking light
That twitches, as she rolls
I hover and cage her in question,
With moist eyes, abandoned
By loves interrogations,
I stab at the untruths and confusions.
I wanted to hear the supplicant
Murmur of indolence and shame.
With windy caresses I break
Her arms, she ropes me red
In tangled hair and I struggle
To let go.  I wanted to taste
The twin defeats of victory
And indifference, when in the light
Of darkest night there are cries of yes
And no and false accusations,
There is consuming pain and excruciating
Pleasure and as we squirm
And seethe, she teases,
Goading me and then,
I loose it.
Little sprite darting,
Wind, whirls, eddies in midair,
Hummingbird hovers.
She left in springtime,
White globes of daisies explode—
What is left of me.
 Mar 2013 Kittridge James
Shawn
to get over writer's block,
write.
not for likes, reblogs,
views, or compliments.
just start.
with words
and nothing more.

losing that longing
for validation
is a liberating cry
that i wish could echo
through these hills,
into libraries
and classrooms
and that notepad
which remains blank
at your bedside.
Ancient tree reaching—
Love rests under gnarled branches,
  .  .  .  Mist over a moor.
Fire on water,
The hearts smoke
And low rain of her eyes,
What wry lashing they gave,
The currency of night's tender,
My fare to the wandering lands
And makeshift rounds of munitions
Slice and plosive gaze.
Let him hold you close
and run his fingers over the scars
that he caused.
Maybe then you will stop.
Maybe then he will understand.
She said she loved him,
Making plans on mobile phones,
One foot out the door.
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