Midnight Snack

There is a McFlurry of Movement. A creamy white smooth swirl.
Dotted with broken biscuits. Broken. Broken up chocolate.
He came home looking like chocolate.
Brown and beautiful.
I love his hands.
I don't like his hands.
When they are elsewhere. Across Oceans.
On strangers thighs.
We can be broken.
Broken.
And slowly pieced back together.

poem by Matisse WalkdenBrown
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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