Warpath, on the Thin Line Be

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I want to have him steeped

in the wrath I use to stir my tea

and make him feel feathered down

‘til the gentle white falls all around


and his waste-side curve

of a crooked smile—

where words escaped

and gutted my insides.

I want him in my deep

right above the knees

and around my waist-side curve.

In a life measured in hours, minutes—

for just a fraction of a second,

what I would give

to dance,

the thin

line between

with him

where words


a pulse to our insides