You have 6 tattoos.
Full lips. Good, strong hands.
You have 7 freckles on your back,
they map out the big dipper.
You have a scar on your left arm
you carved in high school.
The first time you pulled off your t shirt
I traced the line with my fingers and fell in love
with your strength.
You are a hero
for living from that moment
to this one. You never need to apologize
for how you chose to survive
Your body is a map I know every inch of
and if anyone else
were to kiss me, all they would taste
is your name.
I feel as if I am an ad
for the sale of a haunted house:
ghosts and all.
Her skin is taint like whiskey and I take another sip of her, knowing that if I am to fall under adulterated demise it is to be for her lips and the taste of her memoirs. “But I ruin everything I touch”, She whispers weakly. I press my lips onto her palm and register her gentle gaze and lingering melancholy. “Perhaps you do. But there is much that you have not touched, for we are all wanderlust and lost in places that we do not belong- touching what is not ours to touch and abandoning our true extensions”. It was then that I realise that she was not whiskey but the aches and ills that brought my lips to the bottle every night.
I am writing a book on how to write a book so I can learn how to properly explain why you look better with the lights on. I listen to a song but it doesn’t mention your name so I stop listening to the song. Your heart is noise pop. White noise is ghosts missing the streamers that fall from your ears while you sing in the car. Vermont is not far if you are already in Vermont. My cat looks at me and then walks away. He is named either after a famous musician or a body of water. There are so many words I refuse to learn how to spell. Still, I spell check your thighs after I bend you over my desk. I spell check the inside of your left ear while you bite yourself on the kitchen table. Prostrate. Today I am writing in grunts, I am playing in fonts. My chest hair is size 44 Comic Sans. My eyebrows are whittled away before I leave the mall. I have sat under the same sun as you for 25 years. Sometimes I have walked under the same sun as you. Once, I played tennis under the same sun as you. Repetition sun. Staccato sun. Wrinkled sun. I tell your skin that covers your clavicle We’ve got at least 53 more years of holding hands on a bench under the same sun. The sequel to this poem is John Cusack holding a boombox over his head under barely any sun. Fact: I want to kiss your nose even when I’m not inside you.
I have only one sensual life, and that is with you, and I need you to take it seriously and to know that I take it seriously, with all my soul. For me it is something infinitely precious, and weighty, and passionate. I wouldn’t be able to be unfaithful to you, because that would make you into one episode of this life whereas you are this life. I don’t want another, I am totally engaged in it, deeply and with great happiness.
In case you ever foolishly forget; I am never not thinking of you.