Poem: (1)

My bed is empty.
You’re not here.

But you’re not every man, I comfort myself.

whose hair is lighter at the top,
where the sun has softly warmed it,
and darker in the parts that only I can see
when I dig my nose into your scalp like a boar for truffles.
waist and chest like marzipan treats,
pushing against the shirt slightly too tightly,
eager to give away your shape.
my hands feel like the moon moving the oceans,
as I bury myself in your folds.
grazing on the light scattering of short dark hair that stretches across your torso,
up to where your chest kisses your shoulders,
I’m as happy as a cow in a crispy green field.
aftershave that smells like an early millennium body spray commercial
and tastes like the soap I’d have to wash my mouth out with,
if I let out the I love you teasing my tongue.

But when we’re done
and it’s all over,
my bed is still empty.