Mine.

(5) i'm sitting in the space of my comforter, lightly

tapping my hips with two fingers in the rhythm of

a heartbeat, tap, tap, waiting for time to pass,

and these veins to fill—(with pumping poetry,

poetic nonsense and bloody metaphors that

are screaming Your name somewhere

in the part of my head

that is only literate for)—

counting the bends of Your body

and memorizing their place.

(4) rolling onto my back, feeling my shoulders

dig into the springs like little feet, pacing towards

You, and the return of Your immaculate

touch. I've dreamt of You

nearly every night this week—the soft brush

of a cheek and lower lip, becoming the most

needed and addictive prescription of

(my)opiate.

(3) i may find You inside the lyrics of songs

i thought i'd lost, so i play them again and over

again; popping them into my mouth like pills,

slipping their speech into the spaces where—

my body

misses You most.

(2) to feel your ribs, as You return and

interlocking their mouths; click, click, with each word

together against mine—our illiterate dance;

The tips of my hands wandering and gently

settling on the space between Your shoulder

and the edge of my desire,

blushing between vowels and syntax

and the things that get stuck on my tongue.

(1) You—

the well dressed stimulant, tracing shapes

into the sides of my temples with Your hands,

creating and molding,

me—

an addict.

(until these,

and my words

are simply—

Yours.)