Sex turning around thighs,
grabbing at need that devours.
Fluids dissolve into each other; grabbing at hairs and dust,
nestled into cracks of skin.
I roll on my carpet, playing by hand, whisper into the pores,
"i wish you were here. i wish you were mine."
Does anyone really hear wet, parted lips speak?
No one's knocking.
I've spent years for someone to come inside.
~Jessica M. Wilson