it’s like you can sense
when my legs have
found enough strength
to walk away. the minute
my thighs contract to
step forward - there
are your fingers, stroking
my limbs tranquil again.
as if this flesh were clay
you could throw. and i,
desperate to be formed
into anything other than
myself, wantonly bend
to your will. literally.
this allowance of physical
pursuit satisfies my grieving
soul and once again,
i’m a bystander in my
own bedroom, my own
body, my own being.
26 September 2020
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