Memos from the Middle

Smack-Dab in the Middle of Living

Dreaming of Him Loving Me

Early Morning

Weeping Willow at Dawn

Through limp willows weeping silently near the bayou,

The lazy rhythms float on gentle breezes

And slide through the crack

In my broken window.

It’s not yet hot,

But he’s already sweating,

And the cool bead that swayed loosely

From the cleft of his chin

Tumbles down, landing on my bared hip.

I shudder.

He smiles.

I drink the sight of the pinkness of his tongue

Parting the brown lips,

And I “mmm” audibly.

Expectancy tingles the tips of my toes,

Slithers up my legs,

And gathers in my thighs.

I love the way he…


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