And we will have, then,
these mornings filled with long silences,
fingers brushing bare shoulders –
that pull away without remorse.
And we will see, there,
that naked form under shower water,
the flash of flush skin under heated water –
and we will not begin,
unbidden,
unwanted.
And we will taste, then,
salty, wet skin,
our tears splashing
into clever coffee cups,
sup and sip,
the eruption of frustration.
The longing after midnight,
these wandered streets –
unwanted thoughts
of a wildling twisting
on bedroom sheets.
And where do we begin?
With fingers and hands,
these old lovers, first lovers,
constant lovers,
making do
As my thoughts turn,
to you
and what we would do
For hours after midnight.
Writer Moe 