I dug around in my things quite late in the night and found this poem I had written:
The nights are warm. They prickle on my skin.
The air seeps through my windows, less a draft and more a sluggish creature. Sometimes I relive a moment in the night, tucked away into the back corner of nothing.
I’m lying, still. My underwear clings helplessly to me.
Shoes off. Shirt off. Pants on the floor. The mattress moves like quicksand towards you as you clumsily climb across towards me.
Your cloud of musk before you: incense, wine, other people’s handshakes and freshly earned dollar bills.
Your arms dig around me; I am tiny under your form. You find a crevice and suddenly I’m wrapped in you like the package inside dumpling skin.
All comes to settle surrounding you.
Half coherent in this dimly lit darkness the breeze picks up and brushes my forehead.
It is not really, but I feel it is mimicking you and that softens you breathe upon me from your lips - those vessels which say the words i don’t need to hear, but crave.
Through the long night this is how we stay.