Marbled

This city is big. But you make me feel like we’re two orbiting dots and we’re coming in close: pulling and tugging and hugging and fucking and breathing and panting and rushing and running. You know, I like what happens in them clean linen sheets, in sticky back seats and taxi front seats… or… seasonal rain — hot summer rain — flushing and flushed in hotel swimming pools; drenched and wet from above and below.

I lived in a year of silence — of radio silence — lost pulse from the fucking flattened flatline in my chest. And yet… I’m tickled again by a need, the need, to hear my phone ping, to reach for it quickly and hope it’s something from you. I don’t really know how special you are, how special you could be (to me). But I do know that tonight when I hit the hay, lay my head to rest, I look forward to waking, receiving just that little morning text, your usual, your simple, your lovely: “baby, how did you sleep?”