We were living in solitary.
Our insides like yellowed flourescent lights.
Our eyes thirsty, and our hands fertile.
We drank IPAs until all the pain came pouring off
our tongues like rusty water in an old sink.
You thought I was exciting.
I am in denial, so I write.
I write poetry so that I can cloud the fact that my bed now feels
like a coffin without you, and I read your notes and letters and
confessions of affection until I can write another of my own.
Your caramel eyes fill all my voids with their nurturing reflection.
Your lips taste like beer and honey, and sex with you is like euphoria.
You text me one night, while we are separated for the holidays,
that you don’t want to be with anyone else.
I am stung by this.
I roll over one morning, we are in a blanket of overcast, and I can hear my roommate in the next room turning on and off her alarm.
You are sleeping next to me. And suddenly you are perfect.
I love the way your hair is laced across my pillows.
The aromatic scent of last nights wine leaking from your lips.
There is no turning back, there is no retreat-this is you, this is him, you are in love, and it is both rejuvenating and terrifying.
You get too drunk at my birthday and I send you home.
One week later I make you mine.
Our love grew like the cherry blossoms that sparked outside my window.
Full of body and colour and hope.
We held hands in a new city.
I realize that I write mostly when I am sad.
My hands have become gentle.
My bed still feels like the coffin without you,
and I can’t picture being in the South of France without having someone
to change the street names with.
Your hips cup my body at night, like the corner of a puzzle.
I am on the bus, when my dad texts me “that boyfriend of yours is a keeper.”
I smile because I want to drink wine in mason jars, and plan trips to Goa with you for as long as you’d let me.
How long will you let me?