maybe it’s gross, he laughs, gentle paw hooked
in the loose canopy of my curls, but I won’t want
to wash the sheets when you leave. this desire to keep
the sweated snow angels where our bodies lay together;
dried blood and slick sheen of cum stains,
doily ghost of our warm breath, spit
in every wet kiss. drool from dreaming
fresh on the pillowcase.

before I go, he tucks one of his shirts into my suitcase;
a stand-in for his neck the nights I can’t curl into him.
I take it in my hands, pull him closer,
and rub this cotton treasure into his bare chest,
soak up the salt and sleep from the street corners
of his elbows, body wash under his chin;
humid sunsmell of a southern summer in his hair.

my love, we offer ourselves messy,
panting with want, knees crusted by the dirt
we’ve crept through.

my love, we offer ourselves messy,
sticky with swooning,
and I’d lap up every drop.

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