Surrendering
He teaches me pieces,
but not the strategy.
Pawns move straight ahead.
My hands play chess on his chest.
Slender fingers move
in tactile memorization like
coating a body in Braille with my thumbs.
I want to seep into him
as brow absorbs moisture
when our bodies part
wet.
Instead, I trace honey-colored skin:
the expanse of sinewy arms, grip
their contours.
I dig
into hollow collar bone with gnawed nails, clinging —
a silent plea to stay.
Breathe in
the smell of musk; his forest
body wash I use in the shower.
I wear his worn green t-shirt
all day,
our scents mixing.
We can no longer be distinguished.
The Bucketlister 