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This is my studio for exploring my work. Consider these drafts.

She holds the ship’s destiny firmly

She holds the ship’s destiny firmly, restraining it with an inscrutable geometry. Only anticipation remains. Some call it desire. 

But her wine-dark eyes obscure the forecast. She’s skillful to not show her cards. How long can she play this game? How long can she balance a sailor’s fate within her fingertips? Too long, I fear, yet, I can’t deny a certain arousal.

Straight lines, ropes secured, resistance gripped, muffled. The jib extending, extended. Ready.

The rumor of a wind brings hope of a release, of an unfurling, of a spreading. But sailors don’t use such language. And so I say plainly, hopefully, desperately, “fuck me, my darling whore.”

by Balthazar Simões