Submitted by megan on Sat, 11/14/2009 - 14:26
You're off into the chill November air, my smell to be scrubbed from your skin. Though I am hiding in your warm places, you'll catch me in a waft as you reach your arm across the dinner table for salt.
Me, I'm sitting down to breakfast without you, trying to read the paper, eyes glazing over with exhaustion, hot memory. My entire house reeks of our fucking and I give up on food, the daily news, such small pretensions. I drift from room to room, holding my sore nipples, wanting more.