Prose poem today, by yours truly.
She stares up at the ceiling fan, the gold chain shimmying in the moonlight.
Dim light seeps through the curtains, colliding with the dresser, lamps and scattered clothing to create chaotic patterns in the room.
A body is next to hers. Warm. Hairy. Snoring.
Just moments ago her own body had rubbed against his. Tongues, lips, limbs crashing. They’d been thirsty for each other and had scraped teeth and banged heads in their impatience.
Like many times before, like many years in a row, they’d melted together.
She counts the clicks as the fan turns round. She feels the body next to her, his breath moist on her shoulder, his hand sticky on her thigh.
If he were any closer he’d be on top of her and yet…
He sleeps next to her, smiling. He’s there, so why does she feel so utterly