Don Juan
does not find solace
in the folds,
the crumpled linen
nor the whore-red
skin still punctuated
with his youthful failures.
These growing frustrations
inside you, his eyes closed,
he sees only (and always)
himself. In your moans,
in the bones beneath
your shivering skin,
and on the surface
of your questioning
black eyes, he hears his name
feels it and falls
to his knees.
Beside the bed,
he prays.
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