You kiss me on a Saturday night in my car.
You tell me you were never in love with her
and I breathe forgiveness from my lips like the greatest relief in the world.

You hold me on a Sunday night in my room
and you trace the outline of my ribs with a palm
that's switched from harnessing claws to soft fingers back to claws
so many times that I've lost count now.
I push back your hair and map your face out with my fingertips,
trying to memorize the warm skin stretched out over your bones
and trying to comprehend how I could begin to place my hand
on your tired soul-- bring light out of the depths of you and make it rise to the surface with my touch.
When you ask if we can stay like this, wrapped up in each other, forever, my mind races,
and I pray to a God that I don't believe in-- plea that He will let me stay in this moment,
before you run back to her,
before your words crawl back into your throat to collect dust,
before you grow spikes like spores under your warm skin,
and before I open up my arms and let you push them into my vulnerable body with a steel face and tears running down my cheeks.

We see a movie on a Monday afternoon.
The darkness of the movie theater heightens our senses,
and I trace idle circles on your skin,
feel your lips on my cheek and on my chin.
As you're about to go home, we can't seem to stop hugging,
and I'm kissing you, kissing you, aching for the breath to leave me
because something in me knows that tomorrow won't be the same.
You kiss my knuckles as a soft goodbye and walk away from my house.

I come to school on Tuesday morning
and she's hanging off your coat in the hallways.
You look at me with pain in your eyes.
You offer no other explanation.