sext: my hands are on your hips, my hands are around your neck, my hands can’t find you anymore. where are you where are you?

sext: your eyes are vast as plains and deep as canyons, and i can’t look into them anymore without falling.

sext: your faded white car is in my driveway and we are tangled inside of it, your breath hot on my collarbone. you feel like high school, but we both know we’re too old for this.

sext*: if i were an artist, i’d paint my love across your shoulder blades. i’d make a canvas of your chest. i would seep into every crevice of your sculptured frame and you’d never leave me.

I always think I’m clean until I
look closer, put my glasses back on,
inspect my surroundings.
There’s love hiding between the cracks in the sidewalk,
and you can see it if you’re willing to look
close enough. Squat on the pale concrete.
Really get your face up close to it.
It’s there, I promise.

There’s love stuck under my fingernails
and I just can’t seem to scrub it out.
It’s between my toes, under my tongue, behind my ears.
I brush it out of my hair in the shower, but it always comes
back–like lice or a boomerang or the strep that keeps
invading my throat every few months.

I don’t think you’re there anymore, though.
I’ve emptied all my pockets, wrung out my freshly-washed
underwear, thrown away all my bras. You’re not in my shoes,
either, but I turn them upside down and shake sometimes
just to make sure.
Sometimes I wonder about the ratio of my lungs, how
much is water, blood, air, the sound of your voice,
or if it’s even there anymore.

I'm thinking about your tattoo and how much I want to kiss it.
I never saw it in person and that makes me feel like I don't know you.
I want to feed you orange slices in bed and watch the juice
drip down your lips, but then I don't think I've ever seen you eat fruit.
There's always a version of you in these poems,
but it's wrapped up with him and him and him.

He's only ever heard my voice on the phone and I want to ask,
Don't you want to see these lips in person?
but I can't be **** and I don't know if I want to be.
You told me that you almost passed out after I kissed you once
and I can't think of anything more me than that.
I am always too much even when I'm trying so hard to be small.

I pretend like I'm advertising to the public, but in truth
I never keep my okcupid profile active for more than a month.
I go through phases of wanting to be loved and wanting to be used
and I can't help but blame you, even if that's unfair.
You loved me and used me and loved me and used me
but I just loved and loved and cried and loved some more.

I want to promise that this is the last poem I ever write about you,
but my eighth grade teacher told me to never put anything I don't believe in writing.
What I'm trying to say is that I'm glad you're not in my life anymore,
but that doesn't mean I don't miss you.