it is late (or early)Mature

It is late, or early, depending on whether
you’re a glass-half-full or a glass-half-empty
kind of person, and you reach out and 
clasp your fingers around me, bury them
in the spaces between my ribs. Tell me
all the things you can’t articulate in the light,
the things that rot and fester beneath the
tidepools of your eyes when you think
no one else can see it.  Even now
I feel the traces of your touch like fingerprints
on my lips, on my wrist, on my sternum.
You’re searching for a lock but the whole thing
is a big sham, a trick, a ruse to get you close
to let me sink my teeth into the curve 
of your shoulder, to be able to recall - in detail -
the gentle give of your skin, the sweetness
of your presence so intoxicatingly close.
And now I have the taste for it, I’ve memorized
the recipe and it’s only a matter of time
before we’re back here again, and again, and again.

The End

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