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,
i am not writing poetry about you yet because i haven’t found language that is careful enough for your back against my fingertips. in a room that is too loud, you are the softest noise i’ve known. if anyone was made for my hands, it was you. if anyone was made for my eyes, it was you. i want you to know that it doesn’t matter that we could only hold hands in the dark at the start, that there were spaces made for us and they were grass patches next to rivers in the middle of the night, the back of movie theaters, the empty end of the bar. i wanted to touch you everywhere, and i swear that i tried, in our stolen hours, to put my fingers anywhere that i thought they’d fit and it still wasn’t enough because i imagined your knees. and how the skin on your legs is as soft as dawn, and how i would have pressed my cheek against them and kissed you there for hours and that would have been the way we tallied our moments together. the makeup marks on your shirts and your fingers and that space beneath your jaw feels exactly like the poetry i would write if i knew how. i have had you in every way but there are still spaces inside of me that are waiting for your hands. there are still parts of your heart that i have not reached. the night is long when you’re not around and i am in mourning for my collarbones and my shoulders and my hips, i am in mourning for all the parts of me that are missing you. the moon is kissing my skin and asking, “where is she and why isn’t she here?”
we draw lines in the sand and then we cross them. your skin is all ink. poetry and bite marks. temporary tattoos, stolen glances, hickeys on your thighs. don’t worry. it all fades eventually. we sit on opposite sides of the world. we sit. we freeze. we freeze and we freeze and we kiss until we are ablaze. beneath my fingers, i can feel your heart beating. i can feel your heart stopping. my skin is icy july and burning december nights and my mouth is bruised from yours and loving and dying are all the same, i think. when you are young, you love. when you are young, that love burns out like a dying sun. when you are young, you turn your heart over to the stars. she still lingers on my lips. i do not want her to stay there. i want every last morsel to slip between my teeth. chew. swallow. this is the last supper. somewhere in this room, there is a judas. she will kiss me and i will think she is a messiah. sometimes we forget the difference. sometimes it’s all the same thing.
i was never good at math but odds were that i had a one in seven billion chance of meeting someone like you so that means i was more likely to be struck by lightning or to win the lottery with a one in three thousand and one in 175 million chance, respectively, and all i can say is god, i am the luckiest person to be able to fall in love with you.
you keep showing up in places that aren’t just my poems.
i found you in my grocery list
when i bought your favorite kind of beer
and i found you in my car radio
when the song you always hum came on.
i find you in between my movie collection
and on the shelves near my books.
i even found you when i decided to wear
that button up and sweater combination
that you thought i looked cute in.
but i’m always surprised to find you
in bed, sleepy eyed, soft voiced,
and still finding me to be the best
to share the pillow with.