I write this with
my spine
the curve of my neck
my toes.

I am writing this with
my entire body
as it curls towards wherever you are,
a flower in search of the summer sun,
grazing over the rippled words
with the tips of my fingers—
beggar’s fingers. Asking for you. Imagining your knuckles between them—rubbing, sticking;

I write this with
no clothes on
in bed
after dark—sweat forming under my knees, in the crooks of my elbows. Imagining you between these sheets—
electric as our bodies slip and slide against each other.

If I could write you here now, it would be spine perfect-curve-of-neck toes butt thighs soft-skin chapped-lips spit kisses cheeks lips tongues corners-of-mouth
the rocking back and forth as you hold my body in the hammock of your arms
the shivers when your tongue grazes my breasts, goosebumps forming in its wake
the giggles when our bodies bump foreheads
the whispers, conspiracy
your closed eyes, a smile that knows what it’s doing
my messy hair in tangles, caught in fists.

Dripping, dripping, dropped
as we fall back into bed,
my breathing
silenced
by your breathing
silenced
by mine.

Those drowsy mornings when I wake up first and see
the sun shining in
from between blinds,
landing on your face.

Home.