We etched skin-doodles
on memory foam,
night-silk hieroglyphs
with pillow-cased, Rosetta stones.
The maid picked-up the key,
and tossed our sleazy swirls
in a rolling laundry tomb.
The erosion of agitated water-spins
won’t fade what we never shared.
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12 comments:
*bittersweet sigh*
I like your take on "language." The dark images, and negatively stated last line, are interesting. This leaves me wondering about the nature of this particular love, for there are many kinds.
powerful write, pat!
thanks for making me learn something new trying to decipher a symbol :)
Man, I had to read this one over three or four times as each image was overwhelming. It's just me.
Wow! Hot Pat. You'd think it was July in Atlanta. Great one!
You have an amazing way with words!
This one sizzles!
Great poem!
Cleverly worded...took a couple of reads to "get it" (which is about par) :-)
i worked in a laundry once
(i ran away during the first coffee break)
but
i'm still working on
my motel memories
nice one
(loved "skin-doodles")
Pat, this is definitely one of your best. I loved it.
Osquer said it for me...resonatingly bittersweet. One of your best Pat...I'll definitely remember this one for awhile.
They say you can't ever go back............something about this reminds me of returning to a long ago used motel room for another night, alone. Well, we feel what we feel.....
You smut monkey.
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