You backspace on last night’s
draft. Formed in a stupor
Lust. An itch.
You’ve been gently rubbing your labia lips incircular motions. At your side is the last rolled up pad for July.
You look at your headboard and fantasize.
Your fantasy doesn’t grow wings to fly
into your empty dreams. Neither do your texts make her come back.
If you gulp a cocktail of lust, loneliness
and pineapple juice.
It tastes like her nipples.