Non-Erotic PoetryDewdropI knew what he needed
in the second that it took
to swallow cappuccino
confessions at three a.m.
and against my better judgment
I extended comfort’s hand
to brush the wisps of hair
and dreams, fallen in his eyes.
I took him home silently
curled into his leather,
treading dew drenched leaves,
forging a slippery path.
It was after he’d sunk in
that I queried what I’d done,
and if he’d ever leave,
and how I’d slip away.
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