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Writer's pictureDes Art

When Home is a Shoulder

I hate longing for you.

the ever growing yearning

to

be

right there

to you.


I ping pong down hallways in my head

But it fells less crazy,

When I find myself in your hands.

The high blood pressure

Translates to hand beats-

Tapping up and down your skin.

With you- all my words are melodies.

And all the silences’

Are cataclysmic waves of energies

That raise my hair upon my skin.


But when I’m alone,

Or with a group-

And I get anxious or nervous,

I know my first remedy

is you.

The shoulder that feels like home.

But it’s such a bittersweet longing.

For every breath

that’s been stolen away from you lips;

There’s been at least two more

corrupted from desiring them.


22:10

07.10.22

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