Sometimes, if i’m very still and if i let my mind slip back, back, back in time, sometimes
i can still feel the rope, soft, cotton rope, snaking over my skin as he wrapped me,
like a package, a parcel, tied me up.
Shibari, like a whisper,the rope between my legs, the knot right there – yes, there, laying
on my clit, so when i moved – it rubbed – exquisite discomfort. The rope snug enough that
when he unwound me, the imprint lingered on my skin.
i remember, even though it seems so far away, even like it happened to someone else, but
my skin remembers.