Her brown eyes in the dark.
The path of her spine marked with ink.
You trace it with your hand.
You feel her storied body.
Her skin hot, and yielding.
She radiates in the darkness.
Dark hair like spilled ink across the bed.
She gasps when you touch her
with a hand that aches with need;
your fingers wet with her want.
Your mouth fills with the taste of her.
You are starving,
and she is boundless.
In the morning,
there is a bottle of wine on the table.
The hand that poured it,
slender fingers on dark red glass
and thin stem, are gone.
The wine is gone.
The murmur of voices in the darkness
has dissipated into the pale morning sun,
soft and diffuse;
light that spreads and grasps
with halcyon fingers through the yellow curtains
and across the walls,
never reaching.