Still

The core of you,
the dregs,
the body of you.

We spoke on the phone,
the final first time,
saying as little and as much.

You are like my mother,
who I also could not have.

We held hands under the blanket.
I was not allowed beneath the sheet.
But that was not enough,
of a barrier.

We crossed the line,
you and me.
Or rather,
me alone.
You did not draw lines,
only blood.

No holy water.
Only wine.
And I still want the dregs.