Less Than Love Drunk

One night stands are inspiring sometimes.

Wrapped up in Sunday
morning's tangled bedsheets,
the room spinning counterclockwise
as my head weaves

twirling patterns across the ceiling.

I can picture water

running down your bare chest

as you stand under

streaming rivulets.

A smile blurred in last

night's hazy memory.

My tongue traced trails

of salty sweat along your neck.

But that was last night, and

as the front door slams

it's all blown back to

hours before when I asked you

where I would sleep

and you mumbled, "Right here

next to me."

Author's Note

Any comments are appreciated, thanks.