It’s been
less than a week
since the syrup
of your sweat clung
to the undersides
of my ruby polished
nails. That deep musk
catching in the back of
my throat
loosening me at
the hip.
I’ve since washed the
sheets
your baubles
scattered in
the clandestine
corners of my
room.
And my cheeks yearn
to catch
that crook
that roughness
that runs along
your jaw line and
down the folds of
your neck.
I salivate.
I’ll pretend it’s not you
that I miss
but rather
your ability to exhaust
me into an assuring
slumber.
I pause at the tip
of some piece of furnish
one toe playfully
pawing at my rug
arms loosely hung
at my sides
and I imagine
our scene
as it plays out.
The result
a smirk
a deep embedded
shiver
bordering
agony.
The good kind of pain.
It’s the weight
of your shoulders
your arms
securing me to the bed
that keeps me
wistfully
thinking of
you.
