Open your door and invite Loneliness in,
Let him sit across you in your empty room, ask
If he wants a drink of water or perhaps, wine.
He will not answer. Instead, hand him a glass,
Drink with him and tell him about last night.
When Silence cuddled beside you in your bed
And how you offered her your blanket.
Tell him you haven’t slept because you stared
Into her cold blue eyes as it turned orange.
Tell him you know, you know he is coming,
He always comes. He knows you know. He
Will whisper your own name like it’s his, his lips
Cool against your ear. By now, you have your hands
Grasped around the collar of his shirt, your face
Buried on his flushed pulsing neck, wet
From the concoction that is your tears and his sweat.
In a matter of seconds both are undressed, skin
To skin, sweat to sweat, chest to chest, trace
The line of his damp spine with your hands,
From the nape of his neck to his chiseled back.
Feel every rib, like ridges of an ancient valley.
Moan his name as he whispers yours gently,
Say it over and over and over
Again until you become him and him you,
Let yourself be one with the other.
Then he leaves— in between moans
And whispers— without you noticing,
Your empty room now feels emptier.
Silence slithers and she stares. You lie naked.
As you slowly close your eyes, the door
Slowly closes but never fully.