there is a girl in your bed, her jewelry tossed to the nightstand because you were careless in the dark ankles peeking out from the sheets, hair splayed out like a painting, wild and frozen in the moment of some unknown dream,
and you want it not to matter, you said that it was simple, that it was just *******
when you pressed your hand flat against her back and rammed your teeth together in overeager kisses and grinned in lazy triumph when she sighed in your mouth, you said, “don’t worry, this doesn’t mean a thing”
you collected phrases to armor the cavity in your chest “it’s just ***” “nothing to talk about” “i don’t feel anything”
but she stayed the night, pale light from the window is tracing where you’ve kissed; her bony shoulders, the freckles that collar her throat, the purple-red bruise you left just below her right ear now blossoming so much more beautiful than the alcohol and the night would ever let you dream up
there is a girl in your bed and you ache with how it matters.