Swelter

Swelter
Skin remembers.
Hands still think they know her.
Outline on the wall.

Hips that swiveled, slow and indecent,
the way they cracked the evening open.

Bedsheets twisted,
soaked and thrown across the floor.
Every inch of dark I own

is filled with her —
the phantom press
of breast and belly, nothing less
than total submission to the hunger
burning through me, ruthless.

The arch of spine,
the bitten lip,
the slow descent from throat to hip.

Tumescent. Fierce. Gone.
The night won’t end.
The need won’t quit.

A predatory ache,
voluptuous, wide awake.

She’s miles from here,
asleep and clean,
while I combust
in the obscene

theater of remembered touch —
the way she moved,
too goddamn much.

Rapacious dark. Febrile sheets.
The body craves what memory repeats.