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.

 

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