what slowly keeps growing every day,
other than a desire that never sees the light of day?

perhaps regret: threaded to spine and breath,
softly spoken, yet prickier than death.

the memory of a voice never held,
and still echoing when I pray.

the weight of things we never say
deeply planted, roots crawling in quiet dismay.

the ache that traces those nights
folded between my thighs...

a phantom heat beneath the silk,
curls like smoke, but tastes like milk.