I can now pen words from a place
that is neither poisonous
or far too sentimental,
I can narrate with precision
and tell you what I hold close.
How I never drew my fingers
through your windswept locks,
slow enough to count the strands,
the seconds between each breath drawn
as long as the whispering of your name,
the one that no one else ever calls you.
The one too close to my heart,
where it still hurts the most.
Or how my body never cupped itself behind yours,
two perfect spoons motionless beneath quilts,
or how we never raced through the rain,
wet bodies crashing in a furious kiss,
punctuated by lightning dancing across the sky,
like an unstable map of white electric veins.
Or existed in a much smaller moment,
we’ve always agreed those are more crushing,
a fingertip hushing your lips before saying
what can never be taken back once given,
it’s easier to write our own story with a kiss.
Or how I never got to capture the taste,
summer peaches or ripe strawberries
sweetening an impeccable cupid’s bow,
or a subtle vanilla warming the borders
as your hand patiently guided mine,
locked together like hinges forever.
I should have placed yours on my heart,
like a permanent insignia,
scared chambers always beating
where it still hurts the most.
I could have put it in writing
where I always say the right thing.
And never flee into a place
that is neither poisonous
or far too sentimental,
but I can still pinpoint
all that I’ve held close.
How I never coaxed the cotton and lace away,
lips sealing over every inlet and plane uncovered
like such exploration would leave an invisible signature
to say that you’ll always be mine and mine alone.
Or how I’d memorize your fair skin
shifting its subtle hues with heat
and the indescribable want from knowing
the exact flavor of your stripped body.
And existing in the most minute moments,
we’ve always agreed those are more crushing,
like how I would also know
the salt in your tears,
the soft pad of my thumb
smoothing that warm river away.
And I’d feel my hand slowly guided
to the supple mound of a breast,
the pulse beneath a hardened bud
as you rested a palm on my chest
like a permanent insignia.
So very close to a scarred heart,
beating where I always hurt the most.
I could have put it writing,
where I always say the right thing.
Where I can begin to chart
all that I will hold close.
Like being perfectly entangled together
as if embracing a pure second skin,
almost an uncanny valley,
drinking in the intoxicating residuum
beyond our helpless explosion,
drawn out like whispering your name,
the one that no one else ever calls you.
The one too close to my heart
where it still hurts the most.
Where my hands wanted to cup your face,
curved like the shape of a fresh tear
or candlelight in the still dark,
yours would softly caress my cheeks
and I’d be able to completely trace
our lifelines in your careful palms.
I should have put it in writing,
where I always seem to say the right thing.
About how to capture the small moments,
we’ve always agreed those are more crushing.
I should have found a way
to place your hand over my chest
like a permanent insignia,
feel the metronome of a hidden soul,
what really shapes the entirety of a heart.
Where it will always hurt the most.
