Candlebox punches me at 4:30 a.m. as if they were the windchills that haven’t come sneaking through my October windows yet.
I’m only one eyed awake and cold, shag, in this bed of cinnamon flannel, unescorted.
I feel the sting of the shower on my collarbone, my dimples as I grin through the tears, the ululation.
I cannot tell the difference as I feel the droplets trickle down my aeriola, taking up temporary residence in my naval.
There isn’t enough soap to cleanse these parts.
To fill these voids within my core,
Of where you were yesterday.
Puling wildly as my tongue slid slow down your chest.
My hair falling soft across you,
Like the flannel mess on my bed.