three years later, a new girl sits cross-legged on your bed. she tastes like a different flavor of bubblegum than you are used to. she opens up a book that you had to read in high school, and a folded picture of us falls out of chapter three. now there are two unfinished stories resting in her lap. inevitably, she asks, and you tell her.
you say: i dated her a while back.
you don’t say: sometimes, when i’m holding you, i imagine the smell of her vanilla perfume.
you say: she was younger than me.
you don’t say: the sixteen summers in her bones warmed the eighteen winters my skin had weathered.
you say: it’s nothing now.
you don’t say: but it was everything then.
every mouth you’ve ever kissed
was just practice
all the bodies you’ve ever undressed
and ploughed in to
were preparing you for me.
i don’t mind tasting them in the memory of your mouth
they were a long hall way
a door half open
a single suit case still on the conveyor belt
was it a long journey?
did it take you long to find me?
you’re here now,