Rough Buff poem.

Rough Buff

Sleeping naked.
Dripping sweat.
Sticking together
so tight that pulling
apart mimics the
ripping pain
of a body sized band aid.

Summer night’s heat.
Winter’s down cover
magnified by gas logs.
No season is right for
skin against skin.

“This hurts like hell,”
we both say, as we
slip into well-worn
cotton.

Janet Brice Parker