by maggie mahoney

My hands play chess on his chest. Slender fingers move  in tactile memorization like decoding a body with my thumbs.

I want to seep into him as brow absorbs moisture when our bodies part wet.

Instead, I trace his honey-colored skin: the expanse of sinewy arms, grip their contours.

I dig into hollow collar bone with gnawed nails, clinging — a silent plea to stay.

Breathe in  the smell of musk; his forest  body wash I use in the shower.

Wear his worn green t-shirt all day  —  our scents no longer can be distinguished.

Maggie Mahoney is a senior studying Literature and Journalism. She loves to read and has been writing poetry since 3rd grade.