Fickle is my touch when I come across your scent on my sheets… It takes me by surprise and pins me down, like a dream within a dream. A reality I can’t wake up from. I stumble upon particles of your memory drunk on my pillow, swaying between my neck and my thighs.
My throat collapses and words fail me as I try to lean on you.
Tumble upon me
Take me by the hand and tell me our secret is safe.
Tell me your ribcage is my shelter
Your breath my resistance
Your skin my token.
My sky is dark at dawn, my eyes are weary at dusk, and the time in between is tainted with the possibility of my thoughts falling apart from this cycle of doubt. My palms are sweaty, my head is heavy but mostly my bed is empty and my home is in a place that isn’t mine.
I miss you like the world gives a damn. But time is cruel and distance is delusional. And home is a place where memories wait to consume me.
The ocean speaks to me in misty whispers, tells me secrets from across the atlantic… I dip my toes in the freezing water and reminisce about the times light fluctuated on your skin and extended to my spine.
There are mornings when I wake up and feel your love engulfing me with tenderness. And there are nights when I fall asleep with the memory of your fingertips resting against my hips.
My love, you are made of tiny particles of perfect moments that extend into infinity. You are stitched together with droplets of generous affection and lightness. You cradle my baffled heart with such ease, it makes its walls expand with unwavering happiness.
You are skin and bones and constant wonder and I wander in all the words you whisper to me. And when I listen closely, I can almost touch your lips with mine and draw breath from your love.
You’re way ahead by now, a million miles into the river that leads you back home. My heart is spread too thin, fluctuating between wanting you and craving the death of every feeling you birthed in me.
I’m way behind by now, walking down streets where you have sung drunken promises, only to whisk them away, right from under my lashes.
I escape your love and convince myself it’s redemption. I extrapolate to anger, reaching out for the fire within. I play pretend. I run. I run until I can’t breathe, until I crash face down.
So tell me love, have you been to the sea where the waves first whispered to us the story of what could be? Have you sunk your toes into the sand and felt the warmth of my hand on yours? Do you remember the sound of my voice aching for your fingertips on my spine?
Sometimes I wake up and my sheets are white and the sun is warm.
And sometimes I remember that you’re my tongue’s favorite taste. And I go back to the beginning.
My name is forever tainted by the sound of your breath. It is in deep embrace with each moan that escapes your muffled lips.
My name has been tamed. Each time they call it, I throb in anticipation of your fingernails digging into my spine. Chain my vocal chords with strands of your hair, my voice quivers when I hear yours.
My skin has changed patterns and my veins realigned following the trace your touch has left lingering. I itch unwillingly, feeling phantom cravings from faded deliriums. Perhaps the worst is feeling you so close into my hips, swinging from side to side, teasing with your smile. Perhaps the worst is reaching out to grab you and collecting dust.
My soul is famished for the spark you send dripping down my neck each time your hand touches mine in the morning, almost aching from the sleepy absent mindfulness of the night. And in this turmoil of beautiful agony, I breathe you in, take all of you into me, as if it were the last time we meet.
You look at me with kind eyes that stretch into the horizon, and whisper words made from the melody of your heartbeats. You look at me with feelings that flow, pouring flowers from your lips and onto mine. You stay. And I push. And you stay. And I can’t breathe. Because I look at you with the sorrow of the words you’ll never mean. I look at you with blame for all the pain you will impose on my survival. I see you on my sheets, staining them with your scent that will curl up under my spine and unearth my lungs.
I look like a fresh Lilly with dew on my petals, waking up on a Sunday morning, with life sprouting in my veins. I seem like a drowsy drizzle on the edge of your window, pulling you from your soft slumber to come play under the willow tree.
But fundamentally and down to the core, I am a drenched log, expanding from all the humidity that has caused my heart to weigh me down. I am a leap of faith that has seized to comprehend distance and dimensions. I am a sentence of jumbled up words allocating letters to the sounds they don’t belong to.
Love, I trust your eyes, your lashes clutching to them like they’re what make you thrive.
Love, I believe in the air that blows through your ribs, bringing you closer together.
I just don’t trust the time that it took for you to fall, the same time it will take you to put on your coat and walk away.
Some things are better left unsaid, in the pit of your stomach, festering heartache of what could have been. Some things are better left alone, in dark corners of houses that used to be your haven.
Love, your heart is a gruesome desire of “can’t be” and “what should have been”. Your soul is tainted by screeching voices coming out of your bones.
You’ve come a long way, put the past in a box, wrapped it up nicely in a ribbon. You’ve made yourself a little gift, haven’t you? Thinking that if something so ugly from within looked remotely pleasant, it would feed your imagination with crude images of maybe-s.
Straighten up, hold it in, smile little puppet. You haven’t even began to understand all the ways in which you are broken.
Stand tall, aim high, you know it’s only a matter of time until you fall. But that’s alright because in any case, what other choice do you have?
You’re made of tiny bits, glued together by hopeful redemption, by sorrow and ambition. And you are worthy of love, the kind that will turn your scars into works of art.
My love for you is unwavering in its strength. It abides by no law of martyrdom and voracity. I thought if you’d feed off me, you’ll garnish my soul with your touch. I wanted to ignite you but I never thought you’d grow an arsenal to burn me down.
My love for you is rooted deep into my skin. It itches to be free but knows of no place to call home. My heart looks for sheets untainted and pure. But everything I touch is left with the smell of you.
My love for you disgusts me. It brings my flaking knees to bend. I hoped I’d cleanse the misery out of your pores, but was left with undisclosed thoughts and locked lips.