Our piddly little roundabout
ways of connecting
have begun to form
a necessity within us.
A sour and ostentatious mound
stretched around our stomachs
contracting when we seem
to become remotely independent.
It is rubber and it is nonsense,
and it hooks our bellies together,
and it melds within our depths
happily while it tightens.
And we are belly to belly
and skin to skin,
and I can feel your needs within me,
drying inside my ribcage,
hardening
so that I might stay hungry only for you.
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