By

Jaime Lyn Twombly

It is Sunday and
there is nothing but the newspaper
and last night’s clothing
scattered on the floor

A trail to the bedroom
from the front door
where little feet and big feet
are tangled, hanging off
the edge of the bed

Sweat on your brow and
my dirty fingernails
from when we crash landed
inside of each other

Seeking safety
in the middle of the night
and I can still taste
the salt of your skin
where it lingers

And you can feel me
from your shoulders
to the small of your back
as I trace
with my lips,
the road maps of where I have been

It is Sunday and
there is nothing but the newspaper
and the way you make me feel
like I am drowning
in the sweetest painful joy