I Woke Up With Blood on My Jeans

The dress she wore, wore her well:

warm to breasts, ribs, and shoulders,

held soft, bunched up to her small nose.

The dark didn’t touch us, not then, so

we took a little of its bright promise with

us, cupped between our hands, amongst

the Klieg lights, to a hotel room with

champagne on ice.  My lips broke open,

to hurt her the harder, my little blood feather,

before our night was done.  She made delicate

passes over skin lightly kissed.  She pressed part

of that promise down, lower, into the echo of my

chest.  It could have easily been lost in the

bed sheets, but wasn’t.  I hold it now.

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