Where?

Roll over. Alone. Pillows confuse me,
pile pushed up against my back mimic you,
somewhere else tonight.

Palms dance on papyrus flesh, serifs and punctuation marks.
We savor the sentences we write.
Quotation marks fighting sleep, searching the other.

Drink it black, regular, sucralose, decaf. Coffee whore.
Anything goes in my mouth,
indifferent to the taste.

But tea? Sultan of this harem,
clarity, aroma, texture, taste.
It is another facet of a diamond in the making.