System Restore

The bed sheets rustle.

You’re an octopus of hands

here and there, and everywhere

I haven’t been touched before.

You take me to a foreign country

crude in its customs.

The currency of my innocence is no good;

you smirk at it as if it were fool’s gold,

though there’s no denying

the telltale flush of your quickening desire.

Hostage to your navigations

I’m your own private stowaway

unwitting visitor to continents

for which I have no map, no passport

and no desire to visit.

I want to return home;

I want the used-to-be

before the never-again of it all,

want to set my brain, my spirit, my heart

to system restore,

to a time before . . .

you.

System Restore

Beautifuldreamer

Happy Valley, United States

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