It’s in the middle of the night that I miss you most. Your body beside me. Soft and warm. When I could turn over and stroke your face, your throat, your belly. Your thigh. The dark hours becoming a tinge of grey near the edges as I whisper your name, that I love you. Gazing at your silhouette in the dim light, the taste of you on my lips and myself on your fingers. Memories of your voice in my ear, husky with want and fervor. Your fingers laced in my hair. Holding on to these moments, I miss you all over again.
tara caribou | ©2020
Writer and Artist
a collection of short poetry from an autistic mind
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