reading my words
always turned into
the story of you.
poems not about you
suddenly became our life.
written thoughts on you
questioned and queried.
I can’t win this war of words.
so, I’ve resolved to write
whatever the fuck I want
and hope you never read it.
under the cold sheets
she reaches for his warmth
hot from his fevery fire
her hands as cold as the crisp sheets
never too cold for his want
of her touch
his desire boils over to control her
cold hands
pinned to the cold sheets
she sighs
under his spell she closes her eyes
as he warms her to the core
hazel meadows 