Hangover In Autumn
Sunday afternoon, and
I can still smell her scent on
my arm.
Memory of tongue kisses
sending pulses to my groin.
Daylight in September
goes on forever.
The minute hand is more patient than
my desire for her.
The pain of love runs like an
underground stream.
Unable to focus on writing today,
still buzzed from the red wine we shared
over food,
over poems,
over our naked bodies,
I am drunk.
- September 2018
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