The fur of a bear
That basement with the freshly laid carpet that we sat on–
I ran my fingers over his knee as we confessed secrets to each other.
If desire had a scent we both would have smelled like the fur of a bear,
so wild with want, so rotten to the core for each other, so mixed and mangled
with a dozen dirty things,
our hands reduced to paws raking thick trails of lust through the air
that hovered around our bodies.
Erin Schallmoser (she/her) lives in the Pacific Northwest and loves moss, slugs, and the moon, when she can see it. Her work can be found in Hobart, Rejection Letters, Maudlin House, Moonpark Review,Sledgehammer and elsewhere. She is the founder and editor-in-chief of Gastropoda, and is on Twitter @dialogofadream. You can read more at erinschallmoser.com/.
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