I’m lying on you after intimacy.
The sweat draws our flesh together like
honeyed bread and sticky fingers.
The familiarity of you feels so safe.

Under this golden lamp, your skin glows like
a ripe peach hanging from a tree.
I can see every speck,
every translucent hair that compiles fuzz,
every raised bump—goose or some other.

I lean into the crook of your arm
and watch the pulse on your neck.
Watching your living, breathing, existence
stirs sentimence.

Tears drop and slide down into your armpit,
I press my fingers to the pulsating skin
feeling your heart and blood under the pressure.

Our familiarity has turned unique,
and what better way to emulate that
than a body loved so deeply.