I miss panting, draped
Across concrete tile, eyes half-closed,
While the world
Acrobats towards my face.
I miss feeling liquid iceberg
Steam away from my
Whistling-kettle skin
As the air refuses to
Stay in my lungs
I miss feeling the push
Of perfection
That makes me do it
All over again
I miss thinking the next
Straw will break my back,
And seeing black spots
Scatter my vision in the waves
And trying to stay concious
Author notes
Believe it or not, this actually has nothing to do with sex. Honestly.
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