By Monica Kagan

I soak in the bath and inhale you, barely visible through steam. Your wild hair casts a lattice shadow around your face and neck. You talk again about hiking through Turkey. “Now isn’t a good time,” I say. 

After my bath, we devour oven-baked croissants, the chocolate coating your lips. I lick off the chocolate. We forget to close the curtains. 

The morning sun pierces my skull. As I rise, my shadow lingers on your cold empty sheets.

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Monica Kagan lives by the sea in beautiful Cape Town, South Africa. She identifies as a member of the LGBTQ+ community. Her work appears in: New Coin Poetry Journal (ISEA, Rhodes University), FICTION on the WEB, and Crack the Spine, among others. 

Twitter/X: @MonicaOFAH 

Instagram: @monicakaganpoet