Poetry Post #19: H.J.

August 20th.
I’m red
and gray.

Twelve hours.
Eight, Nine,
Eleven, One, Nine.

Brain swimming —
muddled by cheap white wine.
Yellowtail Moscato, I think.

Buried so deep
and again,
I was untouched.

My heart soared
and I sighed on his breast,
body unspent.

I sighed,
I soared
because I believed it to be your breast.

Your ghost
bites like hotel bed bugs.