Page 12 - Lamplight Magazine (1)

THE

STIFLING

By Tim Fletcher

There are others I am told.
There are colours without form,
Cold and hollow and light.
I want the warm weight
Of nights sweltering by
Your stillness;
My stomach stuck
Under the slight sweating
Of your thigh
Bent up around my waist;
My arm in the bend of your neck
And pinned in place;
Humming with the static
Buzz of numbness.
My discomfort is a
Pittance paid for your
Company and touch.
I don’t so much as stretch
Or squeeze unless it is discrete.
You were worth the
Aggravation of frequently
Changed sheets.

EMILY 11
TAHABURT