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.