My knees are always bruised from the places we never went. Dark and tender the way your touch used to feel. My eyes are sleepy and sore from what we never saw. Now they ache with the weight of what they’ll never get to discover. My hands miss what they never touched. They’re always reaching, knuckles cracked and bloody, grasping desperately for what is now out of reach. My heart hurts for what we never had. And for what it will always want.
To curl into you and feel you shy away instead is to spill into my bed and realize it is no longer mine. It’s only you now. The way your back reaches up from such a narrow place. The freckles hapazardly scattering your pale arms. The way your laugh sounds how hot coffee in my throat feels. But now when I curl into those familiar things, I can’t find them. If they are lost, where am I? Everything before you is an empty shell. And I’m afraid you’re only a shell too.
A few breaths on my neck and you’ve opened me up like a book. I let you devour every word. All the while knowing you’re not feeling how I do. You’re not shaken with passion the way my knees and I are. These moments pass and you stumble to the sink. And I’m left on your sheets, with bruises on my thighs and an ache in my chest.
I have not only fallen for you, but for the small details too.
The way you lean forward slightly when you drive. Like you’re going farther than just downtown. That stubborn patch of red hair on the bottom of your chin that your razor always misses. The calm look on your face when you hold a guitar. Like everything makes sense to you in those moments. The way the veins in your arms move when they stretch across the sheets, reaching for me. The way half of your mouth bends into a smirk when you know I want you. How you’ve studied my body like a map and know how to make me squirm. Kisses against my neck, fingernails across my back, squeezes on my sides. The way you look at me sometimes.
Like maybe you’ve fallen for my small details too.
A beautiful boy told me to write again, so I’ll write. He told me to make it a guilty pleasure. Now the only guilty pleasure in my life is the soft pads of his bare feet when he stumbles out of bed. The only guilty pleasure in my life is the slight tickle on my lips when he traces them with his. Warm, soft, safe. Like every message I’ve whispered between those lips. The only guilty pleasure in my life is his scent. Inhaling, invigorating. Like chai tea, more alive than the morning when it’s made. The only guilty pleasure in my life are his fingers. Long and skinny, tracing my spine. His laugh when it makes me squirm. His crinkled eyes that come with that laugh of his. Now the only guilty pleasure in my life is that beautiful boy. And he told me to write. So I’ll write.
If only I could spare you this
And seal my actions with a kiss
Please close my mouth
Don’t let me speak
My actions are strong
But my words are weak