That which would make you more than a dream isn't worth much, to me.

creeping along my hairline in
beads of sweat and in
my eyes, in the corners he
urges along tears, rides them, 

painting 

down


my 




cheeks,



then onto my neck, 
kissing my collar bone
and, in passing, 
tickles the freckles 
between my 
breasts. 

the little that's left of him fingers into 
streams on my belly that has 
been hungry for him - 



- he knows.