poetry is a solitary vice

that comes upon one in the hours

when sleep eludes the self

bedraggles

self-made image

creeps upon quiet feet

and whispers urgent yearnings

in the crevice of the ear

wakens the hunger

for an early-morning smile

the yearning

for a hug, abrázame, amor

a solitary vice

one hides beneath the covers

like some racy book

with panting words

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