I confess.
This is my kind of travel selfie.

Let’s take a bite, let’s leave our mark
on the craving flesh of this city, on every inch
of the glass in this room floating high over the Hudson.

Even as your hands rest on the triangle of light kissing the indentation at my waist, I wonder…

Would they hunger for the woman reflected, divided, yearning, out of reach?

Would they crave the riven being before you, the intensity, the duality, the sensual and the carnal, the appetites and their satiation, brought together as one by your passion and your touch?

On this cold and lonely morning,
only your touch can
save me.

If you spied me from your vantage, if you found me framed high in this picture window,
would you let your gaze linger, would you wonder lust for the taste, the ache,
the bend, the break, the sensation of my naked body pressed in tight?

My body refuses to forget the flavour of your carnality, the addictive high of your sensual pleasure.

With this white expanse made for two, the crisp sheets begging to be tangled and soiled,
the play of sensual light and dangerous shadows, the woman aching to be reduced
to a sodden and trembling mess, can you blame me for this hotel fetish?

Bring me your hands.
And the stories they ache to write upon my skin.

Lover,

I can hear it. I can hear them.

Even as the world beyond begins to wake. Even as the soundtrack of the new day winds its way into the space between these four walls.

The silent cries of the tangled sheets of snow yearning to bear the marks of your ravenous lust.

The low moans of the mahogany borders ready to imbibe our sweat and screams and molten heat.

The disappointed sigh of a bed that aches to feel your imposing weight, your dominant touch, your crazed desire for supple flesh.

I hear their longing and I feel it, understand it, in my body and blood and bones.

And when I do, I wish you here with us all once more.

Gently upon my skin, carved deep into this flesh,
the memories, the possibility, our loose ends and longing.