It’s not every morning I wake up wet. You wouldn’t imagine it is, either. You wouldn’t picture me lying there alone, swathed in cotton sheets, skin taut, imprinted by your tongue. Wrists raw from the bindings of your hands.
You’d picture me there with you. Commanding me from the inside. A moan with each shudder of my hips, a shiver across your face.
A choreographer of dreams. A conductor. A symphony of no one.
And, I, alone. A lost serenade. I awake with the feeling of your hot breath between my legs. My pussy drenched in the lacquer of your tongue. My fists quake. I bite my lip. Clench my thighs. I am left quivering against your cheek.
My poetry is lost in love. A lone, cut-up syllable. Wretched sheets. My silence is the choker around your neck.