Your hand traverses from the curve of my waist to my hips, like a performance car hugging a mountain trail, ends up at the peak, stills. I am turned away. My eyes are closed. I can feel you listening to my breath as the air conditioner hums in the other room. I am asleep and alive. I am awake and waiting. Your fingers travel across continents, dragging alongside my side, waking hair and leaving goosebumps in their wake. Waking. This is how you choose to wake me, spoiled rotten by your touch but greedy still, so I stay still with expectation, hold my breath and let it out in dreams, wait for your next departure, ride along your next route, through crests and falls and an insistent exploration of the topography of my sighs.


Gripe here!

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