Salt on the Windowpane

The city lights blur like wet paint—

Your hand finds mine in the dark a question mark— the salt of your skin sharp on my tongue—

Hotel sheets tangled around our ankles— the river outside sighs a liquid yes—

Fingertips tracing constellations on your back— each freckle a supernova—

Breath hot against my neck— salt stings my eyes— the ache in my hips a sweet ghost—

Your lips on my collarbone— tide rising— sweat slick between us— salt and honey—

The windowpane weeps condensation tears—

*

Outside the river swallows the moon whole— salt on the wind sharp as memory—

Your breath catches— a hook in my ribs—

River whispers against the bank— currents pull at my edges—

Skin mapped in braille— salt trails where you bit me—

The clock ticks its liquid tongue—

We dissolve into the dark— two drops of ink in water—

*

Morning comes too soon— salt crusts on the windowpane—

You stir in your sleep— a question without an answer—