His knees are only knees
but the heat of them against my palms buckles me
i never knew
knees could be so hot
i pray for him to move them away
but he only bends them more
bending the small table under him
shattering our threads of skin
separated by blue jeans
he whispers at me
something about my face
i can't really comprehend
my face will come later
this is about his knees
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"my face will come later
ReplyDeletethis is about his knees"
one of the coolest endings ive ever heard to a poem.