When the singer whispers,
“Look at the things we do
in my dreams, baby.”
On a jog, passing
the spot we first touched,
a breeze in the trees
as we stepped closer,
mouths open,
heat coming off our bodies.
Later, looking at a photograph—
you, naked and lovely.
Your message says,
“A little tired.
Didn’t sleep much,”
but all I see
is every part of you glowing.
My mind lingers there,
blood rising as it wanders
over that image,
blessing every pixel
again and again.