She used to crawl into my little
bed, so low to the ground, as though
gravity had drawn her there
from her high loft. She’d lick

the back of my neck and try
to hold me sweetly. I told her
she was beautiful, but not my type:
Too much product, too thin, too too too.

I told her I loved her as I pushed
her hands away, as I drew love
from another woman. Then

it felt necessary, then it was real,
but now I can see, she was
only a victim of her need for gravity.


Filed under lust and love, Musings, poetry

3 responses to “Roommate

  1. Thanks for stopping by my blog earlier today and your kind comment. I had to do a little sleuthing to find your blog but figured it out on Poetry Thursday. Great last line of your poem, “only a victim of her need for gravity.” Love it.

  2. Thank you. I really enjoyed visiting your poetry and thoughts. I reccommend that anyone who reads this regularly visits Emily, too.

  3. This brought a flood of thoughts into my head. You’ve said so much, so briefly and so well.

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