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deepundergroundpoetry.com
The Good Wife
He’d stare out the window on the nights he wanted me.
There was power in the outline of his hips,
but weakness in the bowing of his head.
Was he praying to the god I didn’t believe in before
satisfying his hunger in my silence?
I knew my role and what he thought were my obligations.
I wondered what he said to his god, the author of life.
He never spoke a word while fucking me.
There was power in the outline of his hips,
but weakness in the bowing of his head.
Was he praying to the god I didn’t believe in before
satisfying his hunger in my silence?
I knew my role and what he thought were my obligations.
I wondered what he said to his god, the author of life.
He never spoke a word while fucking me.
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