Bed is a geography of absences, a map of cold sheets where there used to be fire. I look at the ceiling and look for the trace of your breath, that man vape got me tangled at the bend of the back and the beginning of desire.
You've gone.
and you have left me this hungry wolf vigil,
this thirst for skin that does not quench with water,
but with the rough brush of your beard on my neck.
I miss that mute language of spasms and sweats,
where the world was reduced to two bloods clash
and the only time that mattered was in your hands.
My fingers search for you for inertia in the void,
wanting to rescue the echo of a groan,
the exact friction that ignited my terminals.
I bite my lips remembering your mouth,
that necessary invasion that left me exhausted,
with bare soul and trembling legs.
I curse the silence that now occupies your place.
Is this insomnia a condemnation of living flesh,
a reminder that you were my best vice,
and that now, in the darkness of this room,
my body still screams for you,
while my pride drowns in memory
of all the things we did before you shaded.
Fernanda Meyer ❤
May 7, 2026 ©®
and you have left me this hungry wolf vigil,
this thirst for skin that does not quench with water,
but with the rough brush of your beard on my neck.
I miss that mute language of spasms and sweats,
where the world was reduced to two bloods clash
and the only time that mattered was in your hands.
My fingers search for you for inertia in the void,
wanting to rescue the echo of a groan,
the exact friction that ignited my terminals.
I bite my lips remembering your mouth,
that necessary invasion that left me exhausted,
with bare soul and trembling legs.
I curse the silence that now occupies your place.
Is this insomnia a condemnation of living flesh,
a reminder that you were my best vice,
and that now, in the darkness of this room,
my body still screams for you,
while my pride drowns in memory
of all the things we did before you shaded.
Fernanda Meyer ❤
May 7, 2026 ©®
