There’s things to miss when one’s alone,

that liquid jolt,

the murmured sighs,

light strokes on back of neck.

The deep felt crave which sleeps most days

does rise in burnished night,

tampered down from weary limbs

but lurking all the same.

It is a choice to be alone

though soon my gates fling wide,

I know a sultry song we’ll hum

as we immerse and dance as one.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.