I don’t know the names of your children and can’t recall your husband’s face outside of the fact that he has a square jaw and like me he is not classically beautiful
My tongue remembers the spaces between each of your teeth and the distance between your breast and navel is near that of your earlobe and collar bone
Please forgive me for never being able to imagine you conventional a woman who keeps house and walks a family dog before putting kids to bed
I remember the heat of your fingertips and your eyes unblinking wild that summer we jumped fences to explore the intimacy of our friendship
I saw your skin glistening under water moon-drenched and held the small of your back in my palm my heartbeat felt in every part of me
Lips stained mouthfuls of dirt cheap wine sediment on our tongues swirling toward the bottom as we pulled air from each other’s lungs