A sound of water

by jdavidcharles

A sound of water

and you are awake to the smell of ash and his or her taste and smell along thigh and wrist (where, late night, even you who are so in love, wore such self-pity and

loathing: had to make real, you said, to present, to make present what was real

in ways unreal to those who had loved once or twice, or, and perhaps you know, even here and now). Awake—showing the sheet kicked, idling the butt-end of the mattress—the slyness of you gathering bag, coat, and other clothes like so much plastic waste. And what is

this, darkened in shadow, naked, and wet in the cool of the hall,

so distant and full of desire?