Natasha Wright

S.O.S.

Two bodies lie alone in the same bed. 

We touch without connecting.  Kiss

without feeling, eyes closed

(but not because of the dizziness

of falling).  We are vague reflections

comingling in cold panes of glass. 

We are mannequins. 

Shells. 

I press my teeth into his lip,

the imprints:

dots and dashes of distress. 

Our hands follow the motions,

wiping their sloppy signatures over each other’s bodies,

traveling the same roads with

no attention to scenery. 

We are not breathless. 

Not trembling.  I feel nothing

but the code in our kiss

as we sink.