Solo Sunday Morning

The Sunday morning
he couldn't shake.
The words,
"It was just sex",
played on repeat,
but didn't replace the feeling
of what was lost.

It was just the touch of her breast.
A momentary trade of heartbeats.
A swop of lonesome ties;
made undone.
"Something's" ,
he thought to himself,
"You don't come back from"

Her kiss was like an earthquake
that quickly lead to a body-mount
like a tidal wave,
but solo Sunday morning
felt like a razor blade.
A cut made fresh to the bone....

Bones...
Her bones...

He thought of their hips,
how they moved
in synchronized bliss,
and the impact her lips made
while kissing down his pelvis;
lips wrapping welcomed warmth
around his pulsing dick.

She was air,
and he was suffocating.
To have her for another moment would be worth the search, waiting.

The Sunday morning
he couldn't shake her off of him.
Her scent laid clean-
a trail for the hound.
What was lost
will again be found.