I climb into bed carefully. Making space for your body even though you are not there. I place my hand, that fits so well, into the dip in your chest and breathe in the smell of you. I salivate. It’s a visceral reaction  to your proximity and I know the wetness has also begun to drip between my legs.

Many have rested here in that same place but no-one else has named it. No one else recognised it; passed as it was from father to son to you to me.  It’s a mutation, a recognition, a home.

Wrap me. Your thumb tracing the marks you have left. Sending them deep into me so I can  present me to the world again. Post flight and damp from the coupling I emerge. More present than was possible before.

This us is a wonder. We do not name it yet but that is not because we do not know it. It is because it is not time.

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