I don’t need fragile smoke whispers
slipping past my eyelashes
and hanging as beads of sweat at the hollow of my neck.
I have forgotten who I am.
I need the molten mocha of your eyes
to burn through the butterflies of doubt.
I need pupils dilated,
I need you close as ivy, grasping on the legs of my pale skinned veranda.
I am a foreigner in my own skin
and I don’t need your swaying, sultry song.
I need you to scream my name into the back of my throat.
Make me remember
who I am.
I just finished a book, The Pilot’s Wife by Anita Shreve, and without spoiling the story for you, because it is amazing and you should read it, the main character spoke numerous times about passion leaving a relationship as the time past. It inspired this piece, along with the wordle from MindLoveMisery’sMenagerie.
I have conserved the memory of you,
smashed between the pages
of the photo album on my nightstand –
you, the Polaroid picture I
until the image appeared,
blurred and grainy
and I cried to see the blue of your eyes so diluted.
I have buried myself in the warm fold
of your embrace and
am climbing the steep staircase
of your rib-cage. I am implanting myself
right where it will hurt the most.
I am spying, from the whites of your eyes
to catch a glimpse of the storm sea
in your gaze. It was all I ever