Hands and lips and hearts
lie tangled in the sheets
and I watch you sleeping, all silent
and soft. I watch and
I wait
for you to wake, and I know
too soon you will have to leave,
to go back to Santa Monica
and your red-headed wife
and your children. I
know
you might never leave them.
You might never be all mine.
But I can wait. My
people
have always known patience.
I make a nest of my muscles, my skin,
and settle in.
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