I miss sex
Not the grunting moaning squelching noises
Or a stranger who with dull eyes
stares between my thighs
hungry
But not for me, specifically
I don’t want to be lonely but I only want
bone deep satisfaction
Not just a reaction to gendered attraction
but a pact between confidantes
Friends who have found their inevitable end
penned in quiet verse
rehearsed and rehearsed until the role is rote
but unwritten
I’m afraid Im not yet used to being unused and unbruised
Like summer fruit ripening on the vine
Proclaiming I’m fine
When really I want to feel the roughness
of your stubble on my lips
to be crushed under the rubble of your history
to write sonnets on your skin and win at thumb wars
to uncover some of your scar’s mystery
I want to begin again with someone new
and see prophetic constellations bloom
I want poetry in motion
an ocean of sheets and desires and jokes
and secret smokes out in the garden
Feet damp from dew I’ll tell you something mostly true
and you will swallow me
follow me back inside to hide under the duvet
Cast shadow puppets on the wall
with the rise and fall of your chest
as your breath mingles with my little death
And rest
Replete, our task complete
Salt and sweet mixing on our tongues
Panting
Full of emptiness
So yes
I miss sex
But really I miss asking
What next