He’s all the art shows you didn’t have time for
He’s all the concerts you had no interest in
He’s every poem you couldn’t understand
He’s not you
And I will always love you
But he is him
And he understands every part of me that felt unloved while I was with you
He unlearned how to touch me
any way than with a closed fist.
I’m sorry I tried to kill myself in your bed.
But I felt so alive there it frightened me.
I didn’t love him.
But he loved the parts of me I couldn’t stand.
So we played house
Until I burt it to the ground.
Lipstick stained cigarettes and old bookshops will remind you of me even if you can’t remember what you’re remembering.
You can praise yourself for gluing my shattered heart together again
but don’t leave out the part where you dropped it near the end.
He gently stokes the skin along my neck.
He does it in a way that was never meant to be erotic
but rather like a father trying to sooth his child to sleep.
He kisses the top of my head to remind me once again that he is here.
That I am here.
It’s easy to forget every now and then.
I press my head deeper upon his chest.
Here things seem slow and calm and real.
He moves his face toward mine and grazes his lips upon my forehead.
Then my cheek,
and pauses at my lips.
He glides his finger over my mouth and I pout so we’re closer.
Sometimes skin to skin still doesn’t feel like enough.
His lips meet mine and they dance slowly,
In a way I didn’t think it was possible for me to move.
He tastes of the wine we had just finished
but I guess I was still craving it.
Maybe if I pretend I’m better he’ll love me a little more
It’s like watching a subject,
I have already studied.