The Rash

What do I remember of the fragrance
that tore the night, as it seeped through

the crack of my skin? Between sheets in hotel rooms,
do you see me in the dark blemish,  

like a secret in the inner thigh where he
searches you out in ecstatic pleasure?

From spine splayed book fine charcoal dust rose
gathering fragments from the paper,

the letters rising in a carnival of remembrance –
but who knew they’ll find place in his fingers

under your neck on cobalt nights, misted
with desire that yellow the pages of my life.

Come now, twist the robe around your body
and return the blemish to me, a rash now.

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