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To B. M. Bradley's previous piece

Real

whisper, silence and 
pleasant
women who bring what's 
missing to me
not even women really 
more girls
than woman, physically mature
but young in the heart
living a life 
I won't ever have . . .

coming to me 
with warmth and temporary 
love
            
silence 
sits in my lap
while I run 
my hands over
young brown flesh, she's just doing her job
long dark hair covering 
me with a closeness
wrapping me in
forgetting

whisper 
so quiet
and gentle
razor scars crawling up and 
down her arms
habits and desire 
overriding the youth
lost in a rush
to be free, now she works the Valley
for a pimp that was
on Geraldo

pleasant
warm and brown and soft
large dark eyes and 
smile from the 
Samoan islands
drinking cheap wine laced with 
PCP, the secret dance 
of the south pacific
played slowly across an afternoon
with the rhythms of love 
drawn against pressed flesh
ending with lips
wrapped around firm male skin
every drop 
pulled and savored

I think about this, 
rather than golden-green eyes
and a warm hand I can't stop holding
I think about the truth I've had 
rather than the truth I need