cold questions that i ask myself leave me warm in places
your hands should have occupied.
i shouldn’t have to strain my
memories to recall the imprint
of your touch. they fade every day,
every night, every blue hour past midnight. i would only need to lie back on my bed,
pillows cradling my head as my thighs welcome impatient fingers. like a spell,
i traced your name across my lips,
and then you appeared; the scent of tansy, ganymede with a goblet of dandelion wine, tempting me with eternity by his side.
but now, i strain, i twist,
my hips spasming because now i can’t even recall
how your touch made
this madness worth it.
Mecca-Amirah Jackson 