I imagine you fighting me, keeping me from taking off my clothes.
I picture you, putting my shirt back on, holding my belt tightly.
I imagine you asking me to stop, to sit still, to breathe. You ask me to start over.
You hold my hand and sit with me on the bed; you rest your mouth lightly on my cheek. You are there.
You never left. You never left me alone, facing the sun at noon. You never left my dirty hair, my chocking lungs, and my crawling skin. You never opened my fingers, releasing your hands from mine.
I imagine you pulling me near, catching your breath within my throat, leaving your taste anchored into mine. Morning breathes, exchanging.
I picture you wanting me there, dressed, and tangled.
On my neck, you leave the wet presence of your lips; you leave the words you whisper into my ears.
Don’t leave.

Marie Jane, The Room 22