Sometimes at night, while i struggle to hold you, you slip from the sheets to get a glass of water, but never come back.
In the morning,
I forget to turn the shower on
because I am too busy staring a the yellow tile.
So I stand there, cold, naked, raw
and think of nothing but you and the reasons you do not want to hold me.
I fail to wash away
the ink stains you've left on my
chest and thighs and wrists.

But, some nights you come home
and embrace me.
I am wrapped in your words.
I feel full again,
your striking wit swells
my empty pages with light.
The warmth of your skin on mine
ignites dizzy thoughts.
Your hands fit nicely
above the curve of my hips.
And it feels like Sunday morning,
when you open the windows and
sunlight illuminates white bed sheets ad we talk about the confusing life of lovers
in soft spoken words.

We interlace our legs on the page.
And when you fall asleep,
I lay my head on your chest
and I listen to you breathe.