The sensation

of your hands on me

Is a craving louder than my stomach at 10:45.

 

Past the porcelain,

my nervous system

Becomes a wildfire in proximity to you,

My breath,

A smoky thickness

Oxygen is desperately prying through.

Close is never enough.

Feeling isn’t fulfilling.

 

And it’s not you I’m addicted to.

I’ve made shells out of men before.

But entangled in your arms,

there isn’t room for loneliness.

There’s no space for all the stories I won’t share with you,

or the inevitable exit we’ll both make.

 

I never asked you to see me,

to learn my name,

trace my palms and speculate on everything they carried

before arriving in your bed.

This is the shallow end of connection.

We were just a pair of hands and a night to each other in the end.