The soul sways as Portishead trip-hops around the heart

speaking truer emotions than the tongue ever could.

Evenings like this are ripe for introspection in the dark–

to lay down one’s thoughts naked across the floor,

caressing the bony spots and kissing the hollows.

A subtle yet deeply rooted ache takes hold.

Fingertips trace the imagined trajectory:

the curve of a lip, the gentle slope of a collarbone.

Even in darkness, the arch of a back

is a shade of desire too rich to be denied.

An unbidden sigh timed perfectly with the beat

and repeat

until satisfied and still.

The heart knows where it belongs.

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