Recovery

A glass of espresso rests on an onyx desk. The air is filled with acid and heat. You asked me to make it, to serve it to you. Anything worth loving is worth doing first. Creamy steam slips through the crack between the slabs of shower doors. A podcast blasts from the speaker you sat on bathroom marble. Hotel staff impatiently tap at the suite door. Burgundy-stained wine glasses scattered about symmetrical nightstands remind us that it was our door – for the night. Our once ironed, oyster-clean bed sheets. Our Chicago skyline glistening in the distance. Sparkles off skyscraper windows whisper it’s time to go home. You made time. We made time. I look you in the face and say, “I miss you.” I already miss the hit. We needed our fix. Once in a supermoon. Like drugs, like addicts. We wait in agony, until we can get up again, with sealed lips. What space in silence lasts so long, crossing terrain and time zones. I shake my head, willing you to answer me back. When I open my eyes, I’m on fire again.