April hides in a wing where a duck tucks his green head, mourning’s night long still and you haven’t felt yet what sun can
Somewhere a crossroads at night, the devil, that old blues song. Like every season, I’m best at leaving. I dowse for water. When I
According to a recent study, the twenty-four hours preceding a woman’s orgasm—or lack of—are an emotional foreplay, like shaking a sexual magic 8-ball. Hoping
Like how a hitchhiker takes a ride, half trusting, half resigned to what might arise, half climbing, half sliding between half body half space