April 7, 2024
I see her silhouette against the light of the moon, darkness
stripping off everything except her shape, leaving a road map of places I ache
to go, to touch, to taste, her intoxicating scent filling up all the vacant space
inside me, till I spill over, too remote to actually touch, so I must touch
myself and pretend I feel what I wish to feel, my palms growing so overheated,
I am a steam kettle. It is not that I imagine it all. I recall when I t all was
real, the softness that turns hard with the briefest impression of my fingertips,
the sweet taste of her lips let lingering on my mine when we kissed.
And yet, it is all a still distant memory of what once was,
vivid only in that I still ache for it, and recall how it was, when I tasted,
touched, kissed for real, the press of hips, the slow deep moans, the pain of penetration
that grew hotter the deeper I go – all too far away to get back succinct enough
to cling to me, my lips, my hips, my mind, the silhouette against the moon
light, the shape where I have touched and been touched yet can no longer touch
again, moon light, moans that echo a memory I can’t shed, do not wish to, my
fingers tracing out her shape in the dark, making hard some places, wet others,
drawing out of this shadow the scent only love can create and the more I touch,
the more I need to touch, even if it is all an illusion of what once was very,
very real, she is the silhouette of what I still crave.
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