Midafternoon

Caught, like spiderwebs of caramel,
across my skin the light is painted gold.
The images I have are just not leaving,
of tangled sheets, and sweat, and skin;
of you.

Falling through my sleep, like broken windows,
these dreams return me wakeful to the shore,
half-drowned in salt, and wet, and wanting -
words bleeding from my poet's fingers,
to map the trails of sweat upon my traitor skin.

I miss you.