Perspiring skin gently touches the desk like a wet kiss
I slowly peel off my ripest thoughts of you
and stick them onto the moistened body
of this naked page
they all stick.
Dust departs from the backs of Sahara sands
floating around aimlessly
sticking to sweating walls
and creases of hot flesh.
I scratch and fan
and bathe and fan again
fighting for sanity in this beautiful
You are the itch in my head
I can never quite scratch
the mind’s unblinking eye
yet my thoughts saturate
no longer orphaned
you are my distant and benevolent torturer
the grantor of a most unpleasant mental wound
the scab that I must not pick or dwell upon
until December of 2015.
I promise you