ecstacy taking over (again)

white socks, peeking

trepid ‘tween cut

jeans and green Chucks,

the face sewn on its

pure fabric taunts my-

self as my eyes pretend

absentmindedly to dart

in its direction;

 

his white socks creep

up to his ankle, skin

(and a hair) showing inches

above its hemline; he bends

down, patting it smooth;

and in that rush, ecstacy

taking over again

 

his white socks, surely

delicate, my hands in their

dreams rubbing around it;

kneedling into its soles; and he

stares into my eyes and in that moment

of almost (but not) kissing,

I hate myself for staring

unspeakably at his white socks

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