Here's this week's www.textsfromlastnight.com poem.
(269):
He's my palate cleanser. He's my mint sorbet. He's my saltine cracker. He's who I fuck between people to make the next one better.
Don’t know his middle name.
Or his favorite color.
When he talks, it’s like a clatter of dirty soup spoons
Tossed in a kitchen sink.
But, he serves me.
He’s always prompt.
No questions. Eyes
wide and gently brown like
Sodden earth. I strip
him down, I stretch him
Just so. Set him in motion. Guide him to
Where we rut: today,
the floor. Six weeks (and a
Sleepy art history professor later)
The dusty, thin-lit kitchen.
Never the bed. Not
there. Rules.
I’ve made them.
Silently.
My toes curl and he smiles, sadly,
And he’s out the door.
Knows he can’t stay.
Rules. He’s a
perfect in-between person.
Takes no space.
Hoping always I’ll never see him again.
That the next shape will be permanent.
That the smile will hold.
That some other man will lock arms and coo his compromises.
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