Late Supper by Robert Beveridge
The breath that leaves your lungs, presses
against my lips. The whimper as my fingers
tighten on the small of your back. The click
of frame on frame before we pull our
glasses off, toss them to the coffee table.
The resistance of bra hooks, the tremble
in my fingers, in my voice when I ask,
whispered, if I may take you to bed.
The fumbles of belts, the struggle
to nudity. The salt of your flesh
beneath my tongue. Thick musk
and cinnamon from deep
within. The slick sweet glove
of you against me. The o
of your mouth, sweet almond
of your eyes, slick
friction and your
The way you break the kiss afterwards
to whisper “I missed you.”
©Robert Beveridge 2018
Robert Beveridge makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry just outside Cleveland, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Chiron Review, Poetry Breakfast, and Third Wednesday, among others.