you,
you always come back to me. I don't know if it's because of sex, or love, or some fucked up combination of the two, but you've never been good at staying away. once, entwined on my bed, I asked you if you loved me. always honest, you replied "I think I could".
saturday night after we made love I waited until I could hear you snoring to say the words. I've never said them when I wasn't trying to gain an advantage before and it felt different somehow, like they were just overflowing from my heart and the only place for them to escape was from my lungs, through my throat, passing over my tongue and between my lips.
but one of us is always leaving; the goodbye has become an art form for us. the lingering embrace, the trailing of fingertips down arms betraying our unwillingness to let go - literally or figuratively. the way there are always silent tears welling up behind my sunglasses in the aftermath no matter who's driving me home. the way my hair still smells like your cologne and when I turn my head just right and breathe it in my stomach flips over even after all this time, all these mistakes and separations... and the reunions, oh the reunions.
I am so in love with you. sometimes I forget for a while, but on nights like tonight when we've just done the goodbye dance for the thousandth time I wonder exactly how I manage to. you are so scared of me and I understand exactly why but I'm so tired of running and so tired of you running and...
...and... that's why the story never ends, because there's always an "and..." with us and right now I don't know what comes after it.
what I do know is this: I want to get old with you and have a huge family just like yours and make our kids believe in love like your parents have made me believe. I want our hands intertwined to always feel as right as they did yesterday.
I want to write stupid cliches and be so happy that my poetry becomes insipid and anachronistic. see, it's happening already.
you always come back to me. I don't know if it's because of sex, or love, or some fucked up combination of the two, but you've never been good at staying away. once, entwined on my bed, I asked you if you loved me. always honest, you replied "I think I could".
saturday night after we made love I waited until I could hear you snoring to say the words. I've never said them when I wasn't trying to gain an advantage before and it felt different somehow, like they were just overflowing from my heart and the only place for them to escape was from my lungs, through my throat, passing over my tongue and between my lips.
but one of us is always leaving; the goodbye has become an art form for us. the lingering embrace, the trailing of fingertips down arms betraying our unwillingness to let go - literally or figuratively. the way there are always silent tears welling up behind my sunglasses in the aftermath no matter who's driving me home. the way my hair still smells like your cologne and when I turn my head just right and breathe it in my stomach flips over even after all this time, all these mistakes and separations... and the reunions, oh the reunions.
I am so in love with you. sometimes I forget for a while, but on nights like tonight when we've just done the goodbye dance for the thousandth time I wonder exactly how I manage to. you are so scared of me and I understand exactly why but I'm so tired of running and so tired of you running and...
...and... that's why the story never ends, because there's always an "and..." with us and right now I don't know what comes after it.
what I do know is this: I want to get old with you and have a huge family just like yours and make our kids believe in love like your parents have made me believe. I want our hands intertwined to always feel as right as they did yesterday.
I want to write stupid cliches and be so happy that my poetry becomes insipid and anachronistic. see, it's happening already.
