Tags
erotic poetry, grief, loss, Love shall make us a threesome, pain, poem, resolve, sonnet, you can't see ghosts
It’s not like we’re puppet and puppeteer;
I’m balls deep in yet you grimly retain
control. The sheath of your ass. The severe
gape left behind in your behind like pain
each time I nearly pull out. Each time you
grip the sheets so that your daughter, drawn by
your cries, crouches in the grove of bamboo
to watch the living play. We could still ply
her with love, let her sleep between us, but
you can’t see ghosts. Your world is her gravestone
and grim resolve; rough sex won’t return her,
or burn this pain out of you, meat puppet.
There’s no strings for that. When you cum you moan
out something like, “daughter, daughter, daughter.”
