She leaves things here.
Every time she leaves.
Just something.
A lip gloss.
A jacket.
A pair of sunglasses.
A packet of those cigarettes she can’t seem to live without.
And she’ll come back for it.
Two hours later, two days, two weeks.
She’ll come back.
She always comes back.
Like there’s some sort of security in her disorganisation.
Like she’s saying to me “I ( Read more... )

Your hair splayed about your face like a nimbus, on the pillow your head lays.
You are a deity, but my fingertips are Jesus.
Your back arched, and your hands flat on the bed.
Then, sheets rumpled in clenched fists as you writhe under my touch.
The melody your voice crafts, turn my insides to fire.
A moan means “please more,” but a whimper means I’ve won ( Read more... )