Seventh Floor

I have no choice.
Really.
There is no option
to be with you again
or return to that bed
on the seventh floor
after the rain outside
accumulated
into a need to dry our skin
on the white sheets
where I became a church
containing your confession
and what could I do
but forgive you
for wanting to keep me warm
until the sun broke
into the morning
catching us
warning us
that beauty can burn
as easily as it can
open our mouths
to smile, to speak
or steal a cool
and longed for kiss.

DeMaris Gaunt
8-9-14

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