I can imagine leaning against the countertop, palms down in front of the mirror and the faucet, staring at myself in a literal new light, thinking about how every thing is so foreign and yet strangely familiar because I've seen it so many times before, only in dreams, only in dreams, only in dreams. You come up behind me and your fingers dance across my back, around my waist and rest on my hips. We breathe in time, me oxygen and you my scent. Remember this, I think, remember this well.
I turn and feel your shoulderblades with my fingertips, the way they move when you rush up against me, the way they are so soft, the way they are so strong. I smile because my hands fit so well behind your neck and I pull you close. I want you close, I want you close, skin on skin air tight inside just so close. I don't want to breathe I want to gasp, I want to throw my head back and beg for air.
It's so hot in here, is it your lights or is it me or is it you or is it us?
I can imagine never wanting to leave, just wanting to feel your ribcage, watch the way it rises and falls and know the depressions of its definition. I can imagine just wanting to feel your skin against mine, you against me, you. Wanting to feel your cheek nestled in the curve of my neck, intertwining your fingers with mine against my stomach, feeling you breathe against my back.
It is so subtle.
I said, "I can do fine with imagination."
I meant, "Your bed is mine."