your eyes are closed,
but they scrunch around
the edges, hands
tight around the backs
of my knees, the word
unworthy whispered against
the denim on my thigh.
no, baby. no
I want to say,
but this is not a mark
that I made.
so when your breathing
grows heavier,
I whisper too softly
for you to hear
that you look like a thing
carved from stone then
breathed into existence,
posed across my lap
like a portrait
yet to be drawn.
I hope you hear
anyway.
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