I have a therapist.
She’s been with
me since birth.
Watercolors on my
soul.
She spills black, and
blue; sometimes
red.
Blood is to
bright on the white
page.
I blush for the
both of us.
When all is out for
the caged moments,
I collapse and rest.
I dream in metaphors,
and I taste the
sweetness of her
inner thigh.
Tangerines and treehouses.
I wake to find her slurping on
my soul, I seize her and she
greets me with grief or
gospel music, or
obscure memories of
vaginas long gone.
We take this wild
ride together
forever learning from
our symbiotic bond.
Hey I think you might well have cracked it Thomas .. You may be able to break an egg but you can’t beat a symbiotic bond now can ya squire .. This is smashing and has your literary DNA running right through it .. Neville 👍😎👍
Thank you, my friend.
Stimulating, intriguing, well said and creative. Great!
Thank you.
BRAVA
So damn good.
I like Neville’s comment “literary DNA.” You have a distinct style. It’s Butkowski-ish, but it’s your own. You own that.
Thank you so much.
The pic drew us in but we read this twice and this right here , “obscure memories of
vaginas long gone.” We like this dude
Much appreciated.
Brilliantly penned, Thomas. Excellent write my friend, you hit this one out of the park. Appreciate you.
Damian
Thank you, much appreciated.
The irreplaceable mistress. What would we do without her? I hit “tangerines and treehouses” and actually squealed! Brilliantly written, Thomas.
You are the best. Thanks.