What hurts is
I can still imagine
The feeling of your nails
In my back,
Your lips
On my neck,
My hand
On your throat.
A moment reaching
It’s point of crisis,
And none of it feels wrong,
Then when it’s over
There would be nothing
Left to do but
Wake up the next day
To your sleeping face;
Blanketed by the quiet light of morning,
Walk into the kitchen,
Make you strawberry pancakes
(Probably a little burnt),
Kiss your cheek,
And tell you how beautiful you are.