Erotic PoetryJourney HomeHe smells of soap
and cigars.
A sideways glance
tells me he's ruggedly handsome
if a little past his prime.
He's reading,
something scholarly,
one finger moving restlessly
along the page edge
as if anticipating the next one.
We're too close and yet
years apart, he couldn't wait
for middle age and I was born
too late.
This where I get off.
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