After the war

09cf1211be9672b2c1317cd4573c10520eed9fec_thumb

 

Penelope, twenty years away from you I forget the little things. The toss of your head, the tumble of your breasts as you disrobe. I wake up with a fire in my belly and an ache in my loins. And always, always this perfect thirst.

“I miss you,” you say. “I miss you, and I’m sick of it.” A war that lasted ten years and coming home that feels like another war. I love you. I love you and I’m sick of it.

Leave a light on in Ithaca, Penelope. Don’t I always come back for you?

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s