(fragments from the wee hours)
And in the end,
the house is empty
and I'm left reconstructing your gaze
from disparate fragments of memory
with echoes of your touch
reverberating along the taut strings of my body.
It is this pulse --
you felt it, didn't you,
when you touched me? --
this screw driven too tight,
nameless need for release
that manifests
beneath your stolen caress.
what I hate about the morning after: trying to figure out what the words meant