Of Wild Sex, Poetry, And Man I Call My Ocean

Those half-stoned eyes,

Rough hands feeling up my breast.

Your breath stinking of cheap liquor,

I should have left.

Man, why did I stay?

There must be some spell on me.

I was a ruin myself,

Searching for love in debris.

That cheap motel was not comforting either,

Nor was the sheet smooth.

I even felt bumps on the mattress,

When our bodies rhythmically moved.

You rested your head on my stomach later,

Asked me to read a poem for you.

You are a man with 20 dollar jeans,

Who calls quickie a rendezvous.

I don't know who should I blame?

But it is more than lust.

You listen to my worthless poetry,

And I'm the only woman you trust.

Don't read too much between lines, you say,

Don't call us broken.

I'm the river which flows into you,

And you are my ocean.

Man, why shouldn't I stay?

You fill up the emptiness in me.

With you, I'm a scintillating mess,

With you, I'm free.

*Poetic expression after watching Elle. French movies can do this to you.