I’m sorry that I always squirm away when you press your feet to mine
Under the covers
There are many pairs softer feet
(these are calloused.)
I have walked far.
But you may still kiss them,
If it makes you happy.
I am so full, of our lives intertwined. But you leave me more empty with every missed phone call, and every hour spent unconcerned about tiny hearts, when you say they only beat in my chest.
Don’t tell me that it doesn’t matter how I know what you look like on late nights after too much whiskey, when you’re falling asleep with your jeans still on and ask me to take off your boots.
Don’t tell me that it doesn’t matter that I wake up to your breath on my neck as your warm hands work their way down my hips to undress me, and I turn to kiss you with sleepy lips while you slowly press yourself against me.
Don’t tell me that it doesn’t matter how you know every way to sink your teeth into my flesh and your fingers in my mouth while I wrap my tongue around each one and my legs around your body.
Don’t tell me that it doesn’t matter how you melt inside of me, wet skin and racing hearts.
Don’t tell me that it doesn’t matter that I’m yours.