Conceit


Marks my neck in your conquest
Burns a bit, pleasures in rest
Rags of time, in that I rest
Come tomorrow, nothing will be left

Two or three of these hickeys
Memories of what we had
Once warm & now cold as death
Lost again, my soul is in unrest

The lips that sucked just above my breast
Hands that held my arms above my head
Twitch it caused & moan I let
My breath erratic, your thrust vigorous

Woke up to find them gone with the rest
Love was missing and so was your conquest
I make space for wind to heal
Time to shelter and sun to kneel

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