Mid-June

It is sometime past 3am
On a Sunday in mid-June,
After streetlights laced our legs together.

I keep erasing my handwriting
In pursuit of hopeless perfectionism,
Still too lazy to check my wristwatch.

My eyes roll backward, lids flutter
In waves of lavender electrostatic, and
My bones levitate under my skin.

I can still feel your teeth on my neck,
And I’m trying hard
Not to love you yet.

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