The space between your thighs

The fabric folds

twist around

your thighs as

your hands are


in-between. A

lost warm

place that I

long to touch.


My head, my body, my heart

My head rattles

and  echoes like

a tin can with

seeds in it.

Like rough paper

against rough

skin. Like you

never being here

for me. Like

dropping your

bagel, cream

cheese face down.

Like staring out

the window

until my head

sways like the

leaves. My head,

my body, my

heart is weak.