tell me about the last
time he ate raspberries
off your fingertips, the
last time he stuck his
hands beneath your
bra just to keep warm
the last time he made
you apple cider in the
**** summer heat,
but it's fall and you
miss his sweat, his
bad breath, his
distaste for
sweet things
that you a l w a y s
forgot, and the kiwi
body wash that sat in
his shower, you've been
saying Jesus Christ lately
and you want to stop, but then
again, you still want to be the kind
of girl he might come back to.