The floor is littered with, what would look to those left untouched by love, as meaningless scraps of paper. With trembling hands I rescue the receipts and tickets, salvaging memories unusually ripe with premature nostalgia. I scan over the purchases, gripping the thermal coating with fragile fingers. Each one is folded delicately, and tucked away into the shoebox residing under my closet.
I reopen every single one, scattering them around me as if to pretend they are still relevant, and required organizing immediately. With these fruits of the mind, I have now acquired a new collection of dates which when reviewed in the future, will exhibit yet another time in my little life of impossible joy.
The pattern is you
A timeline of you meeting my gaze, touching my mouth, touching my soul
A flush of the skin, a wandering hand, the tearing of fabric, spreading, gripping, grinding, licking, playing
Kissing
I **** my fingers away from my lips, which are now throbbing from the pressure. The evidence of your physical love cannot be put in the box, so I drive my fingers harder into the love bite.
I take a single receipt with me for today. I refold it with the same care, and lodge it deep within my front jean pocket, I love you.
And my day is absolutely fine, simple almost. I don’t think or eat, but I sleep; this is easy for me.
Sleeping alone is so cruel.
I wake up to find that during my sleep I had lost a sock. I make your joke and break my own heart. I throw away the sock out of anger.
Upon standing from my pathetic slumber, I feel an unbearable pounding in my head. I lag to the medicine cabinet for some sweet relief, and continue into the bathroom where I am quickly exposed to your absence. My mouth falls open in shock; I reach for the receipt but my hands do not cooperate.
And there I fall to my knees, destroyed. As I sob, your watermelon scent only suffers slight contamination by the salt.
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 3:16 PM UTC
The floor is littered with, what would look to those left untouched by love, as meaningless scraps of paper. With trembling hands I rescue the receipts and tickets, salvaging memories unusually ripe with premature nostalgia. I scan over the purchases, gripping the thermal coating with fragile fingers. Each one is folded delicately, and tucked away into the shoebox residing under my closet.
I reopen every single one, scattering them around me as if to pretend they are still relevant, and required organizing immediately. With these fruits of the mind, I have now acquired a new collection of dates which when reviewed in the future, will exhibit yet another time in my little life of impossible joy.
The pattern is you
A timeline of you meeting my gaze, touching my mouth, touching my soul
A flush of the skin, a wandering hand, the tearing of fabric, spreading, gripping, grinding, licking, playing
Kissing
I **** my fingers away from my lips, which are now throbbing from the pressure. The evidence of your physical love cannot be put in the box, so I drive my fingers harder into the love bite.
I take a single receipt with me for today. I refold it with the same care, and lodge it deep within my front jean pocket, I love you.
And my day is absolutely fine, simple almost. I don’t think or eat, but I sleep; this is easy for me.
Sleeping alone is so cruel.
I wake up to find that during my sleep I had lost a sock. I make your joke and break my own heart. I throw away the sock out of anger.
Upon standing from my pathetic slumber, I feel an unbearable pounding in my head. I lag to the medicine cabinet for some sweet relief, and continue into the bathroom where I am quickly exposed to your absence. My mouth falls open in shock; I reach for the receipt but my hands do not cooperate.
And there I fall to my knees, destroyed. As I sob, your watermelon scent only suffers slight contamination by the salt.