Stockholm

Stockholm

you are acid
crumpled little pockets of spikes,
coffee-cakes and mustard sauce
plus pepper spray on ice.

in my sweet, sweet rape,
my cornea never irised
inversely, like for some;
even in the ochre depths,
the sunlight has to come.

you let me go, but sometimes i miss you
rapping on the windowpanes
like the rain – a cloud’s lonely teardrop –
and i want to be captured again.

you are pleasure magnifique,
and in all my imaginings, true,
you never even tried to love me
(perhaps i wanted it more than you).

— A. P.

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