I'm lying on the rug and it's making my thighs sort of itchy and the itchy is sort of nice. I'm propped up on my elbows and I'm looking through the window and I'm thinking that the sky looks greyer tonight, a nice, deep shade of grey. Elephant grey, I'm thinking, and I'm thinking that my thighs love you, the ones that are feeling, but are mostly undisturbed by, the rug.
I'm thinking that my elbows love you, and my right shoulder which is crunched, deeply crunched, into itself as I write. My right shoulder loves you, too.
My feet move and the nightgown that barely covers me loves you, too. It's waiting for your hand to pull it down, to maybe tap my ass on its way out, to wrap around my waist. I'm waiting for your eyes close and for you to sigh, as your hair falls, as it does.
I inhale and my breath reminds me of you because you've seen me breathe. You know my breath like I know yours and maybe that will become boring but it isn't boring now.