Splinters in my hands from opening the door so much.

Letting you back in is a mistake I like choosing.

It never matters how much my finger tips bleed in agony.

Sharp pieces cutting at the palms of my hands as I slam it shut.

My tears haven’t dried yet.

Footsteps creeping back upstairs to our rendezvous.

My hands are numb, no longer feeling the pain of your entrance, only the texture of your tongue against my middle finger.

Your mouth is the key to all my curves, you leave and your scent lingers.

I close the door again, adding splinters to my fingers.

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