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Hotel Room
by Adrian Cepeda

And I miss the taste
of spooning ice cream
that melt, still can feel your
tasting in the side of my mouth.
I hear exhausts cars that pass
our room on the highway,
wanting you to exit on my
cul-de-sac, your entrance
is an engine that motors
loudly when you smell
my tightest of leathers,  
loving to inhale the wanting
you to unzip while licking
the gold glitter off
from my most private freckles—
as the TV snows, I sweat
in your favorite places—
hunched over pages open
to the part where bookmarked
so eloquently. Wishing you
would turn the doorknob,
rip off the silk tie the anniversary
gift you love bonding my hands
to explore me, as your lips
reach for my hungering
thighs, dangling taste-buds
you hold the key. Blinking
more fantasies, waiting
on bedsheets, ready and
dripping on sheets you
unmade with me. 

Adrian Ernesto Cepeda is an L.A. poet who is currently enrolled in the MFA Graduate program at Antioch University in Los Angeles where he lives with his wife and their cat Woody Gold. His poetry has been featured in The Yellow Chair ReviewThick With Conviction and Silver Birch Press