I’m a bit lonely.
I want to trace your hipbones and the dips in your spine
and the shape of your lips and eyes and brows
and count the flecks of amber in your irises.
I want to tangle into an awkward mess of limbs
before settling into a perfectly positioned jumble
and simply breathe and be with you as you are.
I want to knit a hand in your hair while the other thumbs your collarbone
and press my cold toes into your calves until they warm up,
while hiding under the blankets like kids in a fort.
(they always say we grow up too fast;
maybe that’s why we always long for our childhoods in the end
and cling to each other in the dark
when no one else is around to quiet
the panic that a night terror brings.)
But you’re nowhere near and I’m right here,
flying solo in a bed that’s far too big,
and I’m a bit lonely.