By J.J. Colagrande


Look at you, thirty-nine, maybe forty, wrinkled and maternal, I see you taking off your sweatshirt. Your arms stretch over your head, up comes your shirt. I see a bit of your skin cause your T-shirt rises as well. Your lovers past. Back in the day they saw the same spectacle with hella lust, with anticipation, they wanted you. You wanted to be wanted. Oh, yes you did. Remember those days. I’m filled with lust now when I look at you. Lust, like rust, doesn’t fade as much as it decays. Wait till I see Sky, wait till I see my baby-girl, I can’t wait. Thirty-nine, look at you, wrinkled, and maternal, what happened to you? You’re all right. It’s okay. You’re all right. We’re okay, sugar.


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