by Beth Cortez-Neavel

My thick small fingers trail along your scars.
I think: What beauty our bodies become in time –
Barely touching and completely consumed by the other –
Making each moment. Steeping in our own history.

You kiss the stretch marks across my breasts.
Dusty lamplight catches your eyes’ gold flecks
I wonder: What past your sagging skin holds,
What memories are drawn into its lines?

My cold feet tuck under your heavy thighs.
I smile: You laugh deep and push away,
Pull me close and breathe in all the years I’ve forgotten.
I try to taste the salt in your peppered hair.

Slip into me; I sigh.
Moan; I melt into your timeline.

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