Where’s my come? I ask.
She barely whispers.
Say it again, I say, so I can hear it.
But she shudders, twists the bedsheets, knees apart, spine arched, head drawn back against my shoulder so I can press my lips to her ear.
Her voice is a frayed thread.
Tell me, I say, where my come is. Admit it. Tell me again.
····blushing as she dresses—my come up
Redbud | February 19 2017