The bed sheets rustle.
You're an octopus of hands
here and there, and everywhere
I haven't been touched before.
You take me to a foreign country
crude in its customs.
The currency of my innocence is no good;
you smirk at it as if it were fool's gold,
though there's no denying
the telltale flush of your quickening desire.
Hostage to your navigations
I'm your own private stowaway
unwitting visitor to continents
for which I have no map, no passport
and no desire to visit.
I want to return home;
I want the used-to-be
before the never-again of it all,
want to set my brain, my spirit, my heart
to system restore,
to a time before . . .