Clouds spasm overhead,
torn muscle and sinew.
The twitch turns tremor
every time you enter a room.
And after each session,
silence rips,
and I swear I’m done with you.
But worry’s knot
works itself out,
flaws firm up,
when you’re back
cobra stretching,
reverse lunging,
recline twisting
in view,
I picture myself on top of you,
satisfied with our sweat-soaked bed.
©2023 | K.Hartless
Cover Art: “In Bed. The Kiss.” Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec 1892
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
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