A poet measures loneliness on the Richter scale at 4.9, then shifts to raw physical longing after a film, cycling between clinical distance and intimate sensory detail. Curves, wetness, taste, smell. The confession: I miss you.
If loneliness were measured on the Richter scale, then I would be somewhere around a 4.9, enough to be felt and to wobble a few glasses in the cupboard, but no more than that, at least most of the time. But sometimes late at night, after the film has finished and before sleep has begun, my arms miss the curve of your waist The softness of your breast, the wetness of your welcome. I miss the slip and slide, the tongue inside, the mouth around, the smell, the sound. I miss the way you taste, but most of all, I miss you.
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