I found a dampness in your absence, except there has never been an absence because we have not been together. It is a
selfish love; a love so sharply cut it could shine as blood does at dawn. It hurts just as your jaw would have when it was
scored by a switchblade.
You come to me at night time, where the colour of night melts into that cleft in your chin. Your ripe face and weighty torso
unfold in awkward moments like a cat in a trap – this is how I imagine us to be. The cleave in your chin plugs with my juices;
your humid and desperate breath pushing deeper into creases where a brush of your lips or a sweep of your tongue make me tug
at your hair. So I do that, making you hungrier still, so the stubble on your chin roughs up my cunt.
I would be lying on my side, squashing your head with my thighs; your jaw in a lock where I can’t and won’t release you until I have
gushed all over your battered face. I crave our early morning wrestles – such a good fight; one I can always win. But until you come
to me, I’ll dip my fingers into my folds and taste my own medicine.
I itch with disappointment because I know my medicine will never be as sweet as yours.