It’s sex in reverse, isn’t it?
Seeing one’s lover wash and dress,
cover what was naked and
sweaty and stained and
pressed tight against you just
moments ago, the
loins you laved veiled by the
panties you nearly tore, the
breasts you sucked so hard now
nestled anew in that flimsy bra, the
stockings so sensually unrolled now
rolled back up sore, stretched legs.
She turns for you to zip up that
dress you unpurled last night to
lick each knurl of her spine, then her
feet find fine shoes, and she gives you the
same hot tongue she gave when you
opened the door she closes,
leaving you with the slowly
evaporating scent of her perfume, her
sex, her warmth still
lingering in the sheets.