By Michael Cunliffe
I am soft as grey, faded lines, Tattoo ink of erstwhile choices, Memories marked on a now-sagging buttock Once firm and eager to be eyeballed, Now hiding in yoga pants, Only brought into daylight For excretions and evening showers, Then buried under profile pics stolen from Yesteryear, filtered and filtered again. I am gentle as hands That vibrate with friction As they slide up and slide down A fleshy thigh, reclining With the familiarity of declining Moments; an intimate, aching abandon Perchance weekly, or monthly As the moments become fleeting, This year, the next, and the next. I am quiet as unwhispered confidences That soothe weary heads Stroked by the tropical sun Through worn, grey venetian blinds, Dusty at 5:30 am, while a fifteen-year-old Box air con cemented into the wall Wheezes cool, acrid air Over a body stretching for the snooze button – Reaching, reaching, yet never quite reaching.
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