I want that night back. The one where we each laid on our own half of my suddenly-far-too-large bed. The one where I laid there eyes open, then closed, then open again. Facing left, then right, then left again. Heart beating so loud, thoughts drowned out — except the thought of kissing you.

You rolled my way and laid so still. So I rolled toward you. I wanted this. I wanted you. Badly. I lifted my chin. Yours grazed my nose, then you lowered it a little more. I raised mine a bit more and noses slid softly past each other and our lips — they met. Soft, sad kisses were passed back and forth.

Both of us, with our broken hearts, attempting to repair the damage by binding our respective halves together. Hands holding on, not greedily, but in a tender, careful way. No one else existed, nothing else mattered. Not the cold creeping in the window, not the cavernous vacancy in my heart, or the cat mewing for attention. My eyes filled with the sea of freckles that flowed from your shoulder to collar bone. Fingers lightly tracing scars, the raised uneven texture of your sorrows. My hand belongs on that chest, my dear. I’ve made it my job to make sure your heart remains intact and beating.


4 thoughts on “May

  1. You my dear friend have a tremendous gift at tugging at the most fragile sections of my heart. I love the illusory words used, it gives this piece a soul of its own. Thank you for sharing your your heart, mind and soul.

  2. leaflet (anatomy) says:

    Such a tender poem…real. “the raised uneven texture of your sorrow’ is wonderful, for both the literal and imaginative capacity. Lovely.

What are your thoughts?

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s