Tomorrow, Again

27 9 5
                                    

All I can feel under my cupped palm

is fabric,

but we both know

it means so much more.

Lying on my bedroom floor,

itchy rug beneath our heads.

My eyes flick from my hand

to your steady,

mossy gaze.

I add my other hand 

and involuntarily

your beautiful eyes slide closed.

The taste of your lips is

a delicacy, but not in short supply.

I take a second helping,

feasting,

my hands roaming you like there is no tomorrow.

But there will be,

and we'll do this again,

and again,

until I know you --

have mapped you --

inside and out.

I remember every dimple, 

every freckle,

everything.

Stormy Shoals: A Poetry CollectionWhere stories live. Discover now