The room's
Darkness sticks to itself, a mass of sweat-wet shadows, bodies.
I turn my head, my eyes straining.
The ceiling remains grey,
But moving, silently writhing, open – I think of his mouth
Gnashing the air, noiseless, in his bid to avoid
The squeak of bed springs. The small globules of
Salt-water soaking the baby curls on the crest of his
Hairline.

He had been saying over and over, it's O.K., its O.K.,
The sun had broken through a slit in the curtains and shone on his back that day,
The first. I had stared at the ceiling in awe.

I had been licking his lips
The night before.

Now I lie waiting like, lovesick, and a minute later
I skewer myself with my fingers, because, fuck,
I can still taste it. Him. His absence feels hard, like his hand in mine.
The silence is long as his body.
The notion disturbs me.