we never talk about the ******* afterward.
it's hidden in the dust on my sheets, his liquids still fresh,
his cologne stamped on my pillowcases,
instead he asks about work, mentions his exhaustion,
doesn't bring up the marks he always leaves,
the one on my arm like a birthmark,
the small red ones on my back,
the ones on my hips like roses left out for too long
last night his fingers pressed on my throat and he kept asking how
i liked it. i was drunk, he was drunk and when he said he loved *******
me i almost thought he said
he loved
me.
in my room we spoke of what we always spoke of, books and PhD's,
of classmates, of futures, and interrupting our conversation his
lips found mine, in a hungry kind of way,
he never really liked to kiss.
it'll be two weeks until i see him again, perhaps longer,
and our talks will be briefer, and i am hoping my scratches are long
and violent on his back, i hope his skull is stinging from my
pulls.
we **** like we'll never **** again, and maybe i haven't had
this passion in a long while,
because i know he'll never be mine.
his fingers on my throat felt like freedom, and it's in those hours between
late night and early morning we are nothing but skin,
his fingers on my throat,
his fingers on my throat,
his fingers on my throat,
i'm choking on my spit