You unbutton my shirt as I watch your eyes tracing my skin, slide your hand under my skirt and onto my thigh. I count my breaths as your lips press into my neck. You say I make you go weak as you slip the strap off my left shoulder. My cheeks go red as you trace lines on me that will never leave,
spelling out your name,
engrained into me,
With your head in my hands, I fall back and clutch your arms as though you’ll never leave. Your palm holding me up, reaching up, fingers tangled in my hair as you mouth words we both know you’ll never mean.
But my mind feels safest when my body is under yours, overpowering these romantic lines I start to write. You glance down as I look up at you. Place your hand on my throat so I don’t get confused. Suffocate me with reasons why you make it so hard to breathe. I taste your skin and I bite my words so you won’t hear how loud my chest moves. You press my hands against the sheets but I make sure our fingers intertwine. You like the friction when you’re on me, I like how close our hearts seem to be. I wrap my arms around your shoulders so skin on skin can close this distance, but space still exists in the saddest of forms.
Rolling around, intertwining under sheets that mean too much to me, that stick to my skin when I try to leave. But I’ll do whatever you say so long as you look at me like you’ll stay.
I don’t know when it turned so brown, grainy like pieces of ripped up photographs that have been stripped down and boiled into a crisp that smells like something you hoped you forgot. And this doesn’t sound pretty, not like her skin, and it doesn’t feel real, not like the moments I’m with her. But it might sound cliché like every other word that comes out of my god damn mouth since pressing my nervous palms against her waist. And she said my hands were soft as she entangled her fingers deeper into mine, but tangles become knots like those in my once empty stomach that now bears not enough space. Discomfort in her presence and discontent in her absence. Like a song that starts midway through on your favorite line, caught off guard, unexpected, unraveling. And nothing makes sense but the smallest things, like maple leaves you saw falling in New York that one night. Because maple, maple, maple is more real than honey. And I want to know what her first love must …
I like the way her hair smells, and I think I am crazy for that, simply that, that’s all I need, to make circles in my head where squares can only be and to calculate footsteps as stones that clank on a metal path and remind me of all the times I caused noise where they heard silence. And I am jaded, and I am the color dark green that swims in circles around her fucking eyes that I want to let myself drown in because it doesn’t feel normal if I don’t, but then I have to remind myself that normalcy was created in my own head, shifting in waves of up and down emotions she says she feels for me. And I don’t understand how I became so insane over love, so I stay in logic and keep any remnant of feeling far away from me so when I sense a faint touch of skin on my fingertips, my nails start to peel back and recoil at the thought of her empty voice. …
I look at her through the window, blue laced dress holding a bottle of ginger soda, accidentally spilling some up her leg. She laughs as she looks across the table at you. Her hands are small and she wears a gold watch that you got her last Christmas. She reaches over and places her hand on your wrist, you look up and take in her silhouette, the way her brown eyes look at you. She smiles and traces two fingers against your open palm, you feel the lightness of her being and you like how she eases violent thoughts that tick in your brain. She looks to the side as someone passes by as though she’s thinking of a story she’d like to tell. You ask “what is it?” and she simply says, “i think he’s someone I knew…” You like the innocence in disguise, the kind she plays down so she can look straight into your eyes. You underestimate her beaten down chest, as if she’s never watched a part of herself die. You …
You watch as she gives you her own perfect heart. Out of her beautiful chest and into her open palms as if she’s saying trust me because I trust you, love me because I love you. “I’ll go first so you don’t have to” she says with her soft eyes as she looks up at you. Yet in truth she expected nothing back.
You look down with hesitation. “If she’s giving it to you,” you think “then it wouldn’t be stealing right?”
But you don’t have to be a thief to break someone’s heart, and someone doesn’t need to be a thief to take yours.
But you were careless
you neglected and rejected and replaced
just as you were before.
You had only broken parts to give
unsure of what to do with them
thinking maybe they would find their way back together in the presence of her love
but it’s often all too late
after something more is shattered too
after she is long gone with a heart you broke
loving someone who would never break her to begin with.
You let your fingers intertwine in my hair and I pretend not to notice how close your lips are from mine. I refuse to look up, scared you might notice my shaking hands. I feel your hesitation as your palm touches my cheeks and I start to count my breaths. I play it out in my head, I’m scared you’re so close you can taste it. I know you like to call me a friend, but what do you call me when it’s just us two?
You say, “Look at me,”
I say “I don’t want to.”
I’m scared of what your lips and fingertips will make of me.
I don’t know why I miss you or if I should miss you. I don’t even know what historical place you were supposed to hold in my mind. Maybe you were a set of realizations, a meaningful lesson, a glimpse of what I should have learned years ago. And maybe it’s weird that I wonder what you’re doing or why you’re doing it. And maybe it was more of myself that I saw in the rough palms of your hands, some type of reflection I needed to emit back to myself like the uninvited sunlight on a gloomy Sunday afternoon. I needed it. I needed you. And now maybe I don’t.
Shitty writing for a shitty situation, that’s all I can think. I don’t care to spill my ink into twisted words that sound more beautiful then they really are.