I give the stink of me, the wetness between my legs,
to another person. This is a gift.
You can have this part of me, and you can have
my forehead to kiss in the morning when we have just woken up,
and you can have the sight of me,
wrapped in a towel like an insect, on the way to the shower.
You pull these gifts out of me,
drink me like an epicure, hungry, it’s been a year
since this was possible.
You thought about me every day of that year
while I moved myself away.
Now, I’m yours;
I season your tongue with the salt of my skin;
wantonly, I rub myself into you, remembering the not having.
I am desperate and dependent, I starve for sex
with eyes and talk,
I ache to breathe your air.
When you are not here, I lie in bed and smell you on my fingers.
You smell of hot coffee and dried wisteria, the sweat of the sun.
So I press you inside me, swirl you around,
show you places I have not been.
I am your vessel. Drink out of me,
prop me up on the tripod of you body.
We take pictures with our eyes, wanting to remember
each aching, fragile second.
This is ammo for later.

I am brutal.