I can hear the flowers growing
in each moan of your breath
I can feel the breeze of your essence
while your body is pressed on me
your hair moves through my fingers
like wet sand
and the skin that I'm in
grins
like mad

I am not the type of flesh
to regret
the motion of fingertips
tracing my physical silhouette at rest
in ways even Schiele could not invent
still in knowing our actions are forward
I always hesitate to explain how I miss you