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The Game

You win.
It is down
to who can hold out the longest,
in spite of the insults of the other,
their tickling, their pinching.
You always know how to catch me out.
I sneezed the first time.
The second time you said: look at that cloud,
                                      it looks like a donkey's phallus!
I open my eyes.
You take the game so seriously,
despite my attempts to get you to move, to open your eyes,
you never do.
For a few minutes i will wait
and again for a few more,
for you to stir,
hoping to surprise a glance
slipped quickly beneath lashes,
shingled for only a flash.
             Waiting for your spine to curve, for you to stretch
and yawn in insipid boredom
(to rest your chin
in the palm of your hand)
disillusioned, depressed even,
that i can't play the game as well as you can.
you lie there still,
a loose tendril of ebony hair across your peach cheek,
ants marching across your swelling breast
collecting cake crumbs,
refusing to wake. Still,
       refusing to let your body be anything but a corpse to me.

19 Feb 10

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