That hot July night
When we sat together,
Drinking cheap beer from
Immaculate wine glasses,
I swear I felt something—
Something subtle,
Like a cheek kiss
And on that hot July night
When you pulled up my dress
To trace my web of stretch marks,
You told me I must have been weaved
By Arachne, herself.
And, I swear, I swear,
I felt something—
Something so fragile
Like a heartbeat.
Then you kissed me,
First up my legs;
A journey to my mouth,
Taking off my insecurities like
A second layer of clothes.
That night,
I realized something— inevitable,
That you would poison my poetry
With clichés,
And leave me
A poet
Without words.