John Townercc0


I’m waiting for the water to boil and
my thoughts drift to you as I pour myself
a glass of Pinot Noir. I miss you when
you’re gone. I straighten my top and ponder
what degree of heat your skin creates on
my lips with the slightest brush — and what if
they linger longer? Taking a slow sip,
I get lost in the notion of feeling
you and then of feeling you feeling me —
wanting that transfer of energy — the
buzz. Stirring the marinara — I check
and it tastes just like my nonno’s — we’d have
so much fun in Tuscany, you and I,
living like my cousins do — we’d get used
to a siesta, I imagine — you
and me and some espresso. I swallow
and sweet vermillion tumbles down my throat
while I ponder the juxtaposition
of my breast pressed against your side — soft meets
firm. I strength train but all that power lies
underneath softness, concealed. I smile ‘cause
I know you like having something to squeeze.
I swallow again and close my eyes to
feel the weight of your chest on my back. Slow
exhale — I drop pasta in the water
and send you a message to tell you I’m
wearing yoga pants and a tank top — I
know you’re thinking of me and I like it.
A slight move of my hand sends burgundy
swirling ‘round my glass — dipping my nose in
to inhale the bouquet: earthy, oak, black
cherry, cinnamon — breathe — imagining
it’s your scent that fills my nostrils and the
quick flit of your pulse whispers long in my
ear — or is that mine? Adjusting the lid
on the pot so it doesn’t boil over,
I take a slow sip and hold the liquid
on my tongue for a bit and remember
how you like to put your hands on my waist.
Or do you do that because I like it?
Funny how some things are prone to quiver.
Thinking of your rhythm drives me crazy —
my thoughts tumbling to the beat. I set the
glass down for a moment and it makes a
clink against the surface I’m holding to
steady myself. It’s snowing outside but
the heat is roaring and I sense the weight
of you. I sigh and a sip makes me blush
with fleeting thoughts of kissing you again.
I may be way ahead of myself but
can’t deny all I think about is your
breath on my neck. The room fills with steam as
I drain the pot. While I watch water slip
through the sieve I can feel you behind me —
hands moving slowly down my back — arching.
Flushed, a warm wave wicks through me. Dinner will
be ready soon and I taste brine on my
tongue — famished — I shudder and lick my lips,
languidly tracing the smooth curve of my
glass — smiling, I see your face — fingers brush
dark hair from dark eyes that stare into mine—
yours asking, mine saying: take it. I pour
myself another glass and wish you were here.


Marika Bianca