That hot July night

When we sat together,

Drinking cheap beer from

Immaculate wine glasses,

I swear I felt something—

Something subtle,

Like a cheek kiss

And on that hot July night

When you pulled up my dress

To trace my web of stretch marks,

You told me I must have been weaved

By Arachne, herself.

And, I swear, I swear,

I felt something—

Something so fragile

Like a heartbeat.

Then you kissed me,

First up my legs;

A journey to my mouth,

Taking off my insecurities like

A second layer of clothes.

That night,

I realized something— inevitable,

That you would poison my poetry

With clichés,

And leave me

A poet

Without words.