my body's all juiced up on wine and you,

you are across the city and there are no hands on the curve of your back,

no breath at the nape of your neck,

your eyes are not on me.

I'm pulling at scabs on the backs of my hands

and thinking of the coffee buzz paranoia in the muggy streets. 

your body is so familiar under my mouth

that it becomes strange in frequency,

like a word swilling around at the back of my throat.

becomes foreign when you realize these parts randomly collide.

that's where you are rooted in me,

dug in the back of my skull, 
warm and perpetually wet.