By Julia Colombo
When left alone imagination’s tears
betray me. Looming doubts conceived by dread;
but can I love him too? And can I shed
the other occupants between my ears?
Unconsciously I trace forbidden threads
and then, without permission, judgement’s gone.
It's not like I intend to fixate on
how bad I want him in my bed.
Distorted by the influence of rum,
I catch a whiff of peppermint shampoo
in curly hair that oh-so-badly needs a trim.
His hand rests just above my knee, his thumb
so slowly tracing circles. For a few
distracted moments I don’t care. And I don’t stop him.