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.