Your skin smells like summer camp,
it lingers on me like chlorine from a pool in July.
Your laughter radiates through your bones like electricity.
I used to tell them all about you-- the boy with the bright eyes that seem to smile before a smile can form on his lips.
I am crazy, all in the best ways and all for you.
I identify as what you call me when I am between the sheets with you.
Your little girl, your little ****, your *****.
All for you.
Lightening, lightening, you are bolts of lightening.
And I'm afraid you've struck something in me because I am on fire for you, darling.

I call it my old house-- it stands in the woods with no electricity, and no water.
If you listen carefully enough, you can hear laughter still dancing down the hall
followed by the screaming and fighting.
Every time I go there I see visions of two young girls sledding down the big hill out front, or friends and past friends talking on the front porch illuminated in Christmas lights.
Still I sit in my old room where tapestrys and photographs once lined the walls.
The house where family once lived sits quiet.
And lonely.
The children don't play anymore and my mother doesn't fill the kitchen with scents of dinner and she no longer burns incense.
The flowers don't grow because they are dead.
The windows were left wide open and the beds stripped of their sheets, some of my old things are buried behind my closet door.... like skeletons.

No one will answer the door if you knock because no one is home.

We live in cigarette smoke and shadows and uncontrollable laughter; in music, and in the way the wood floor creaks and shakes the whole house even when you walk lightly on it.
We live in cold basement walls and staircases lined with blue neon lights.
We live in confusion and my fingers pressing into your skin and the way you would wrap all of yourself around me while I ****** you.
We live in the ***** moments followed by the sweet ones where you would kiss my forehead and I could feel your warm body slide up against me in the middle of the night.
The most I remember of those days was bundling up in layers and walking outside through snow up to our knees just to get to Williamson road under the setting sun just so we could get a pack of cigarettes.
The sky was dark blue and it reminded me a lot of your eyes.
I remember waking up to the sound of guitars upstairs and the way you nodded your head and lost yourself in the melody of your own music.
I would watch your fingers-- the way they would pluck the cords and slide over the instrument so effortlessly.

And you look at me from across the room and for a moment, I'm at a loss for words

so I just smile.

You pointed to the bottle as if to cue me to drink it, as we watched cartoons in a daze.
I would take a sip and then pass it to you.
I can remember that kissing that bottle felt a lot like kissing you.
It stung and tasted a lot like poison, but I kept coming back for more.

I could have heard a song one thousand times and think of it differently only when it plays through your speakers.
I watch your lips closely as you speak.

"Play it again, I like that song," you tell me. And so I play it again.
I pay close attention to the way you push me against the wall in your room, where only a sliver of light comes through your half open bedroom door leading to the hallway. Complete silence as you run your hands down my back softly.
I leave my hands on the back of your neck.
"Can we just keep the lights like this for awhile?" I ask as you lead me to your bed.
I watch the silhouette of your strong arms against the wall.
Your veins look like road maps telling me exactly where to go. You ****** hard and then soft, kiss me and then look me dead cold in my eyes.
You are my home.