Dust departs from the backs of Sahara sands
floating around aimlessly
sticking to sweating walls
and creases of hot flesh.
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.
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