I remember that this is not the time,
nor the place.
I hang up my weary, yellow, jacket
and my dead sunglasses.
Realising
I am not just a sweet pair of arms
nor your play thing.
But something upon which to unload
your wares, your muscle:
A hammam for sweating bodies;
A mat for muddy shoes.
Far more than being your
pretty picture.
More troublesome than a
Lone Soldier.
Greater than Love,
Greater than Sorrow.
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