My recent writing has been all over the place.
My thoughts are all you.
My writing now lives in scatter plots
and the hair that you made messy with your gentle hands.
The cluttered sheets beneath your back
as you are beneath me.
They rest themselves in lips that linger
as they barely press themselves against
bare shoulders and cold necks.
Teeth hitting teeth.
There is no precision.
That would be impossible.
And yet it seemed foolproof, perfect.

I don't know if I am really talking about my writing anymore.

It was brief.
I still remember your arms woven around me.
I remember the light scratch of your nails,
dancing across my back
as if it were brail.
Like you were searching for some kind of message
written in my bare skin,
but you soon realized


it was a message I didn't have.