you're heavy today.

like the ropes you'd ask me
to pull up onto the bow of the boat.

that was last summer
when my knees knocked together
and my ac didn't work right.

the sweat still sticks to me.
the smell is strong.

like your scotch and
your tobacco and
your scent.

the warm one
with the sweet undertones.

the one you wore to every dinner
under your jacket.

the one in the half-bottle
that was the only thing
on the whole of your bathroom counter.

the one i think of now in this weird place
between remembering
the searing heat of your voice
and waxing poetic
over the veins in your arms.

and since i'm being honest,
i've always been jealous
of every glass
you put to your lips.

where they found
the soft of your flesh
i found the grit of teeth
and the sharpness of your tongue.

and for a second,
i almost miss that iron taste,
that tangle of ropes
and the hard spots on the pads of my fingers.

down on my palms,
the callouses have faded.

my hands are soft now,
but tough.

strengthened from the burns
of braided rope
and pie pans
and you.

made hot by the grip of july.