as jokingly as I can but
with a still hold on seriousness in the
air I tell you, "I'm the best you'll ever have,"
and to reply
you whisper into my hair almost as if
I really was an answer to the prayers
that quickly passed beneath your eye lids while you slept,
as simple as it sounds, I want to always remember the way you look at me under the dim awful lighting at my favorite sushi restaurant. and I want to remember the way your voice sounds when you call me a romantic as we fall asleep to Star Wars playing in the background.
It rained and rained
Until I was sure
Our hearts had spilled over
Into the night and I couldn’t
Keep my body off yours.
We looked at each others hands
and studied the lines
as if they would lead us somewhere.
They almost look identical,
my life line as long as yours.
and breaks in the
typography of our skin the same,
yet you do not know where I come
from and I
do not yet know you.
I'll always have
a romantic idea about you: an
idea that wakes me when the sun rises
and lures me to sleep knowing your
miles out of reach.
I'll always have that hopeless
swept up in a story sort of feeling remembering
how you looked at me.
Always with a smirk full of longing,
the tension between us tight enough
at any moment we were bound to
snap together in a passionate whirlwind.
I remember how a year ago
I was heartbroken over how
much I wanted you to want me.
Remembering the way you sleep
and for that brief night, how I felt
your arms like spider vines
tangling with my heart and my legs.
I've realized that I don't want this sadness
to be the biggest thing you've ever given me and
that the sun glows and burns with a heat
that reminds me of when I knew you
didn't see me as the one you were meant to be with.
My fingers felt hollow and it was a sadness that settled in between my
ribs and fingertips.
I felt heavy with the realization that learning about
this type of nostalgia comes
with getting over you.
I should have asked you to sing for me more,
and I should have held you more and kissed you
when I wanted.
I should have made you hold my hands because I am beginning to
forget what your hands felt like.
Your hands were my favorite part of you.
I've learned that a type of sadness comes
with riding in the car with other boys and
that being walked to my front door is something
you should have done.
We sleep in beds that aren’t ours
and use pillows formed to the shapes
of other people’s necks.
The curve of their bodies leave
shadows and memories. I feel
them seep into my skin as I sleep
and I wash them clean in the lake
in the dewy morning.
We make beds that aren’t ours
and rest in a sun that feels borrowed.
Blankets and linens smell clean,
but not like us. They are soft and worn
and cradle easily against our bodies.
We notice frames full of photographs
of people who aren’t our family.
Notes left on the fridge and drinking glasses
with fingerprints different from our own
kept in cabinets within our reach.
I eat fruit out of a bowl and wonder how
many others have tasted the iron of an old spoon
on their tongue.
At night, before the sun goes down
we ride bikes with broken seats that sit too low
and use a canoe that is dusty with another family’s story.