Worn bed linens, a breeze, tattered cloth flapping gently like lapping water
at the edge of a river.
Time erodes layers,
fades colors, tatters fabric
leaving remnants behind,
like a bed and our love.
At a certain angle, depending on where I am, and with whom, the night follows me
when I close my eyes,
rolling over my skin, into the quietest crevices where you have recently been.
I lie as still as I can,
feeling your mouth on mine, the weight of you,
long after you're gone.
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