You are mistaken.
I am not your North Star, consistently waiting and redundantly home;
stagnantly eking boiled potatoes and salted herring, and all things hearth and home.
This latitude points me to terrestrial delights and a container of carnal confections.
Plying into my fleshy grove of histories, complex and heady, rising, mounting, and liberating;
You rewrite my testament.
We desecrate hallowed sheets when you appropriate these
Sticky seas; bare breasts; nipples taunt; thighs eager; tongue coiled;
and that gentle junction of ass and cunt where you colonize what is yours.
When your weapon of words slay into my carbon and flesh,
You leave me deflated, folded between two pages in a book.
