This Is Poetry After All

He opened a fresh Sharpie
and handed it to me.
It’s acid tang settled in my throat.
He watched as I struggled to write
Property of –
on the Venus Mound of my body.
His Venus Mound.
The shaved area above where blessings occur.
This is poetry after all.
For we write our lives everyday.
Why not here too?
And it is his property.
So I carefully,
upside down and backwards,
from my point of view,
a kinder like scrawl.
Over tiny razor bumps and
the sharpie skipped, then
wobbled as it hit the dip of a faint scar,
a souvenir from the hysto I endured
at the age of 24.
Then with a somber purpose,
He then took the sharpie,
and signed his name.
Looking down at it now,
I realize,
I am just happy to
be loved by somebody;
even if its not for my heart.
Alexey Sorokin Photography

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