Mother’s Milk

I dream to draw you to my breast
To reside in my bossom, my face full of hair
Brushing aside a tide of empty compliments
Where the hiding is easy, severed from
the mire of temporal tethers
enjambed in early age

Might I be able to nurture and nourish
To provide calm with my barren breast
Aesthetically pleasing, I guess;
still superfluous breast
I could caress and hold for the better part
of an afternoon
Should my breast prove warm

I dream, as I’m suckled, to brush
Almond skin, kiss almond eyes, seat weary legs
To absorb all the neithers held in these breaths
Exed and hailed and memories prior
Oh, but the lies; dirty, filthy lies
Turns a breast cold and I
wake unembraced.


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