Her

At night, I think of her (this her is unnamed, unknown, but she has a face, a shape, hair and nails, legs and arms and fingertips, a mouth, red, an existence, is a soul) and I think of gathering the sharp sickle curve of her body against me so tight that it slices through skin, through the subdermal layer, through subcutaneous fat and gristle, through bone, through organ meat, through veins and tendons, into blood, into cells, into the very metaphysical essence of me—

And then we sigh together. And sleep.