The art of not fucking.

I love to sleep
                The sleep of love
                               With you.

Love makes us
Drowsy

Our smaller hands
        Smaller bodies

Night rushes
Into the arms of my lover
                 The back of her mind
                  The length of her spine

Rhythm of slight movements
Drunk on red wine

Love blooms
In sucking scars
Of each others bodies

Softening the harshness
Under the covers

Alternate longings
Half belongings

Exchanging
The art of fucking
For
The art of
Sensual longing.

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Blank screens.

There was a time
You used to text me

Constantly.

You were hooked
To reading my name

On your home screen.

I knew every detail
The pattern of your days
The hours you couldn’t sleep

You shared
Thoughts infinitely

You called me
In gaps.

My voice made you
Sane and glad.

There was a time
Your words made
The space around me.

Gentle.
Lovely.

There is no time here
Now
There are only
Electronic memories
Of sentences
dipped in longing.

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