What can YOU say in six sentences?
In the cold dry hotel room you ask me to push needles into your skin, slowly. We use a towel so we won't stain the high thread count sheets. Your body flinches, vulnerable, then rises to meet the sharpness, until at last you cry out, freed from expectation and sex and the questions of love, nothing between us but steel and blood for a single flickering hour. The anticipation; the satisfaction.
As the airplane banks north on our flight back home, back to the jobs and the kids and the neighbors, all the band-aids are in place. I watch through the window as boats carve white trails across the glassy abundance of the blue, the island receding behind and below, the shape and color of a scab healed all wrong.