Breadcrumb #318


The one
Texts me poetry-
Words hot
 Bourbon fire.
He says
Even in dreams
We are one. 

The one
Gives me his cock,
Not his cum. 
I have always
Loved tragedies. 

The one
Paints me like
The Kiss.
Gets me off with
 Hands that are calloused
From past lovers.
Hands that have
Touched velvet,
Touched my soul.

The one
Is tortured
The way all
Artists are. 

I hate him
The most,
Because he is
My mirror.
Delusion after delusion.

The one
Journals his conquests-


I am not one of his
French girls
To be written about, 
Finite and pressed neatly
Into the spine of what
Might as well be
His Bible.

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