The Weight of a Black Anvil Night
I’ll pull out
and cum on her, keep cumming,
keep cumming until she is trapped in white.
In time, the white will harden, then crack.
And she will emerge a moth,
flutter out the door
toward clouds bruised
by the weight
of a black anvil night.
If there’s a rainbow around the moon,
I’ll watch her go,
but only if.
Forgive me, but I’ll need the distraction,
some color to look away towards
and pretend is significant.
But tonight, she lies naked in my bed,
legs wrapped around my waist, and asks,
Why haven’t you written a poem about me?
I stop and tell her,
Because I’m not miserable,
and because you’re here.