Aug 23, 2009

for c

sweat, pouring.

we aren't moving a muscle.
and yet, it pours.

i want to run a sickle down the back of your arms and capture that moisture in a cup for me to drink.

i want to know your oil, your salt.

it wasn't just the heat that made me sweat.
drip. drip. drip.

i think of sickles and slick skin and laugh to myself.
about old stones.

while we drink, we speak of friction.

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