Sunlight streams through widely drawn curtains
and falls on your face,
exposed between bedsheets.
I sit on the window sill, pressed against the glass,
six stories above
South Eutaw Street.
Your eyes blink twice
beneath long lashed lids.
You close your arms around me
even when I’m not there.
Half empty bottles of green gatorade
and a bitter stained cup of McCafe joe
decorate the night stand
from last night’s done deed.
Forgotten lacy things and all of your clothes
and remnants of candy colored condom wrappers
litter the carpeted hotel floor.
I walk among the wreckage like one treads in the ocean
stripped to the skin, my flaws are unsheltered.
I creep a bit closer and crouch beside the bed
and touch the life force that moves in your neck,
and all at once I’m flooded with how it felt
to be submerged with you
for the very first time,
twenty thousand leagues under a starlit city sky
making waves of our own in a king sized bed
as the ripples drifted slowly