Sometimes I see your scar,
dark track where your breast
once was. I see you kneeling,
that first time in my bed,
sinewy arms pulling
the black muscle T-shirt
over your head.
I see your surprised smile
as I pull out a tiny bottle,
squeeze a glistening bead
onto your fingers—
I’m giving you all kinds
of permission—and I feel
that tender rush, as you
slow us down.

​

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Storyscape Literary Journal

and Sober Cooking