Twirl

I still feel that syrup stain
Of sweat and time hanging
On my body; hands smoothing
Skin, feeling out the way;
We work. The twirl of sheets and
Fingertips, catching glimpses of skin;
Small etchings of sound popping
From our lips. It’s the harsh and flow
Of it, the temperate weather gone awry
To welcome unloneliness and sound
In the beating heart.

About these ads