A letter for old love

The sum of my years has been spent knowing your body and learning the puzzle of how we fit and connect into each other.

The plane of your flank flush with my arm. My face flat against your belly like a memory foam pillow. The sweep of your back meeting the convex of my front. My nose settling into the crevice behind your ear. My hand like a snug mitt over the swell of your breast. The small of your back is home to my palm.

Your bent knees are an arrow; a sign to tessellate.

The single curve of your sleeping form is a light font emboldened when joined by mine. My tongue pays the coin slot of your sex. Your spine is a harpsichord for my playing fingers. My hands are combs for your hair. Four ankles knot like yarn. Each hand a frame for your shoulder blade.

Your collarbone, the place we collect rainwater. My cheek, a cushion for your sternum. The undulating basin at the end of your throat is where my tongue goes to drink. The dimples at the end of your back are the beginnings of my end; I rest my forehead quietly in surrender.

Eyelashes woven into a pattern of interlocks. Fingers laced like new brogues. Your lips clasping mine the way the desert does to sand.

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