MORNING FINDS ME NAKED IN BED ALONE

This morning found me naked in bed alone,
a hollowed vessel on rumpled linen shore.
No dream-echo lingered, no warmth but my own—
just cold light defining the bedroom door.

I stared my day by making myself cum:
not joy, but a ritual against the gray,
a pulse to prove this skin was still a drum
beating its solitary, stubborn way.

Fingers traced valleys the sun hadn’t warmed,
a pilgrimage down to the root of the ache.
No gasp for another—just breath reformed
in the furnace where longing makes its own break.

Release came like rainfall on parched desert stone—
brief mercy, then silence reclaiming the throne.

The body remembers what the mind shelves away:
I am here. I am now. I am breathing. I stay.