Anna Nichols Cooksey
When we lay in bed,
the crux of my body
hinges on your soft edges;
morphed together, tethered magnetism.
When we wake,
the curved outline of your hand
lingers on the small of my back
no longer longing, but desire.
When you turn over,
I trace it all with my fingers—
the strong sides of your shoulders,
the wild arches of your spine.
When we face each other,
I breathe in, savoring
the perfume from your collarbone,
hopelessly drunk on your spirit.
Sometimes I worry,
when our bodies grow old,
your flesh and my flesh
will cease melding and mixing and molding.
Anna Nichols Cooksey is a perpetually caffeinated junior pursuing a double major in English and Media Studies. She finds dogs and cats much easier to talk to than humans.