She knelt down on the mattress, her face shoved

Into the linens, the lines of his chest, his back,

Surrounding her, engulfing her scent, she reconstructs

His presence and breathes in the memory within her sheets.

 

She looks out of the door as if she had lost something,

A sensation unseen, withering, letters rearranged and heartbroken.

Her desire faded into a violin with strained strings.

Her hair hooked against the wall, the shoulders cold and unheld.

 

She loves violently, irresistibly, her mind is boiling,

She cannot think about anything else, and he always

Claimed that women could never get obsessed.

And then he grasped her body, his tongue erecting her silhouette.

 

The oils of her skin, unravelling, orange peel, squeezing her flesh,

Impatient, persistent, the curtains drawn apart, nothing is stronger

And more convincing than her imagination, the heat bursting on her

Scalp, quadrupling the traces his fingers left on her shivering skin.

 

She thought that she’d gladly perish in this way.

She’d felt it all, what could get better than this,

The odes he composed with her body, the voice it could release,

The sweet bitterness, the sigh, the tortured tenderness, longing,

The moment he leaves her alone.

silhouette of woman standing near window
Photo by Jessica Nunes on Pexels.com

 

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