Blunt hands run callouses slowly up my thighs. Fingertips place invisible bruises on the bones of my hips.
Just this once. For now. Until something better comes along, you said. You don’t say you missed me. Neither of us says love.
Later, when your breath slows and we lie, sweaty, sated, in tangled sheets, fingers interwoven, I will examine the lines on your palm. Heart line: short and broken. Head line: too strong. I wonder if I can see myself in the frayed ropes of either.
Once Upon A Dandelion Dream 