In the afternoon, still, the memory of me. The shape and the color of my lips along the rim of one glass. And here– the wrinkle of sheet describes perfectly my back, the shadows from the blinds– my hair spread out across the bed's heaving surface.
Your hands ride the air, trace the shapes of desire; the curve of hip, crook of the arm, the delicate edge of bone below the skin. Your memory tugs as your hands move, blood rushes, breath comes fast. A blind pain, an ache for release, builds.
Close your eyes and you will feel me there, so near to you. Roll your body over mine and breathe the scent I've left behind, of cedar and skin. Take your hands to task and try to remember the warmth, the impossible warmth of sliding inside.
The soft pressure of dark nipples at your palms, the flood of scent like the wet, dark earth torn open. The sensation of being threaded through me, looping out in bursts of animal song; the hoarseness of the crows at dawn, their urgency.
Whisper my name, evoke my face, the feel of my body under yours. Press your face into my hair, into my neck, the pillow I have stained with my desire, and try to unleash the memory of this; of splitting open, of spilling out, unraveling like thread.