Pitch darkness, tiny beads of streetlight peppering into
view from the small square windows. Your silhouette,
dark in the outline of the pale sheets. Blurriness
(for I can’t see much without my glasses),
and the alabaster shine of your eyes.
Your breathing, relaxed and syncopated with my
quick inhales of trying to relax into the sound of
your arm resting on mine. Voice cracking with
dehydration and sugary affection, laugh high
and bell-like against my breathy chuckle.
Dry, sticky mouth from swallowing my paranoia.
The thoughts in my head of what your mouth on my
tongue would remind me of: sweet butter, a tinge of
citrus, bitter droplets of past lovers who never could
give you what I wish I did not know you needed.
A stale-washed quilt in a stuffy room that smells
of too many exhales. Your perfume mixing with
make-up remover and no food since lunchtime.
The aromas of our different bodies mingling, itching
to know more about the other.
Fingers linking with the hand of another. Soft, gentle
circles with the tip of your thumb on my hand.
One kiss, two, three on my left shoulder–your lips
have left ink there, spilled sloppily with tiredness and wine,
but they touch me, you touch me–
Humming-shifting-pulsing, eyes teary and lips parted.
Your body curves parallel to mine until I close the gap.
Knowing it will never be like this again, not anymore.
Cherishing the way your chest moves up-down-up-down
under your arm. A possibility deep within me that you