"That’s not writing, that’s typing."

i remember thinking
you looked small
your head on your pillow
eyes closed
listening for her footsteps
while i straddled your hips
denim on soft cotton
hair brushed lightly
against face and torso
and hands pressed
into groping hands
i waited for your sharp exhale
ran lips lightly
across face and neck
then gathered up my pride
and closed the door.

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