Why do you have to be so intimate?
You lean in, you whisper in my ear,
you hold my hand, you kiss my neck
(we're in public, have a bit of decency.)
Sometimes, you go too far
and then I'm choking
and I beg you to let go, but you don't
until I'm gagging on my spit, cheeks damp.
But don't worry, I don't talk about it.
At least never in full.
Only in hints
where the words don't cut to the bone
and the embraces I receive are gentle,
cradling my mind to sleep.
Tell me, do they see you?
Do they see the little blacks and blues you leave,
the print of your hand on my cheek,
the maps of hurt that you trace and follow like religion?
Or are you only recognizable in the small hours,
sitting by my bed, tucking me in,
kissing me good night, promising you'll return tomorrow
with your hand on my chest
so I don't forget the weight?
Oh, but how could I ever forget the weight?
Your body on top of mine,
There is no need to worry,
I've already memorized the feeling.