I am writing this alone in the place
where we first touched—
here in this concrete cavern,
where hands first wandered,
and tongues first tangled.
You breathed “fuck” into my mouth on every exhale,
like some sort of prayer;
I could taste each letter echo against your teeth.
I am leaning against the wall you pushed me into,
one hand in my hair and the other around my neck;
somehow that doesn’t seem romantic anymore.
I suppose our love was always violent.
Now I’m spitting into the parking spot where you invited me into your car, as if you’re standing here in front of me,
wearing that ridiculous khaki-colored parka of yours.
Don’t you dare flatter yourself thinking I miss you anymore.
I used to believe I’d lost my magic when your fingers were no longer dripping down my spine like water,
and your lips were miles away,
muttering lies into the ears of new, pure Madonnas
instead of dragging down my chest.
I thought you’d peeled off a part of me with my skirt that night in the back of your car,
and slipped it into your glove compartment with everything else you’d forgotten,
but when I called my therapist shaking in the middle of the night saying I was afraid I didn’t know who the hell I was anymore,
she whispered into the receiver,
“Dear child, you are everything you ever were without him. Please do not blame yourself.”
For months I couldn’t rid myself of your messages as they collected dust in the back of my phone,
and I read each profound profanity like a bedtime story,
hoping I’d wake up and
it would all have been a dream.
"Baby, I want you on top of me so badly." [delete] [save]
“Fuck, I could be touching you right now. Soon.” [delete] [save]
“God, I miss kissing your neck.” [delete] [save]
Spider cracks had spread across my bones so vastly
I swore I’d shatter upon impact,
yet last week I passed you on the street and felt nothing.
I smothered every one of our memories
in the praises of chain-smokers and philosophy majors who told me I was a goddess they wished to worship,
and each transfusion made my blood a little stronger.
I told you the last time you called not to forget me, but it seems I misspoke—
Don’t forget this:
you were never more than a disease my immune system rejected.
a girl’s feet will tangle yours under sheets you just bought for a night like this. the price tag is still glued to the plastic wrapping stuffed underneath the bed. her feet are frigid and feel like frostbite against your legs when you fall asleep, but they’re like mittens roasted over a fire when the sun blinks through the curtains.
a girl’s legs are taut and thick. they’re flexible and enclose you in a straightjacket at 2 am when they knot around your waist and pull you just a little closer. if she’s still sleeping, it’s even better.
her thighs will make you forget about your calculus homework and your french exam. they will make you forget about your father’s affair or your best friend’s disorders. they will make you forget your name and they will make you forget who you are without them. hold them as tight as you can. i promise, she loves it.
when you were in fourth grade, they taught you stop, drop, and roll at the sign of a fire. when you’re in her bedroom on the second floor, her quivering hips will trick-start a similar fire in your teeth, and you’re going to want to listen to your fourth grade teacher, but don’t. if you stop, whatever it may be that you’re doing, she might kill you.
so in health class, they’re supposed to teach you that your hands will never fit somewhere like they will on a girl’s waist. it doesn’t matter if it’s wide and soft, or small and hard. your hands will adapt to her waist like the heart to your blood. they’ll feel as natural as fingers on an instrument.
sometimes you can see her ribs; sometimes you can’t. they flicker like an old grainy movie under her skin, and they feel like sharp magma in your palms. they’re structure — they protect her. hold her there if you want her to feel like this house isn’t caving in on herself.
her chest. promise her you’d never want anything more or anything less. if you don’t mean it, stop reading, and find someone else.
taste her collarbone. dip in the crevices and valleys and plant trees at the bottom. root down, cherish the nature, and never ever underestimate a girl’s collarbones. they’re a place to sleep when its -11 outside. write scripts on her collarbone. they are forever.
if you don’t know blueprints to her neck with your eyes closed from tracing it with your mouth, you’re doing it wrong. learn it. memorize it. you better know her pulse like counting with your dominant hand. kiss it like it’s her mouth. her neck will change over time, yes. but make sure you can change with it.
kiss her before she brushes her teeth. make fun of her morning breath. kiss her after, and make fun of the flavor of her toothpaste. kiss her when she’s angry and throwing the vase your mother bought her, and kiss her when she can’t stand and she bubbles over with tears like hot water. kiss her if she’s laughing and tell her it’s because she makes you happy. kiss her if she won’t stop talking because you want to taste her voice. kiss her when she isn’t talking because you miss it. kiss her in the shower and kiss her everywhere. if it’s raining, kiss her, and kiss her again when she calls you a cliche. kiss her in public because you want them all to know, and kiss her in private because you don’t need them to either. god, just kiss her on the mouth. nothing else matters. just fucking kiss her.