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May 2017
Her shoulder *****
open to the sun
reveals the long road
to warmer sands,
where her heart beats
the waves in the ocean,
as the bass through boards
on her holy dance floor,
private, secluded.
Her trim of green
smells of a sweet
musk, patchouli, of
old cinnamon
I fill my lungs
I pretend that she's smoke,
invites and then guides
my journey toward her
sacred equator.

|||||||||||||||. . .

On the run, the run, on the run
There's a place to which I'd like to travel
But I've been there before THAT'S
HAPPINESS actualized and two heavy
hands to wipe it all away
Disintegrate, disintegrate
On the run, the run, on the run
Invitation is one thing -- I don't deserve
The want is with me the
heart is pure

This spirit, though
still broken from
whatever time before
Zero Nine
Written by
Zero Nine  27/Non-binary/Portland, OR
(27/Non-binary/Portland, OR)   
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