I woke up craving her;
the beautiful, dark rings that lay across her neck;
the warmth of her hands between my shoulder blades;
the smell of her hair when I am buried in her arms;
her lips, the same lips that feel like home;
the bridge of her nose that so proudly announces her roots;
the way her body moves to music, forwards, to the side, hips swaying with an ancient knowledge;
her sultry eyelids when the corner of her mouth curls because she knows that she just did something to entrance me;
her breath on my chest in the light of the yellow-hood at 6 AM;
the push of her fingertips on my thighs;
her voice when she calls me “amorcito”;
the quick bounce of her tongue when she speaks in Spanish.
I woke up craving her.


One thought on “Ivette

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