Talking at Night

by Claire Daverley

Sorry, he says to her. What for? For taking so long, he says.

He does not say all that he wants to. That she is meant for more. That she should have someone who burns for her; who crawls beneath her own skin.

And through his anger and relief, he finds he still wants to kiss her. His hunger so real and cavernous that he wants to take her inside him, somehow, to drink her up; swim deep in the low, dark red of her.

I don’t want to shoot for things that bleed me dry, anymore; I want things that fill me up, and I don’t care what they are, as long as you’re there, and I’m there with you. I