i wonder if the brown of your skin
tastes like honey when it slides
off the honeycomb and into eager mouths
if it explodes with candied sweetness
subtle and shocking at the same time.
does your kind of brown
wear itself out with its beauty?
or does it just stay pretty
Trying not to lose you means holding onto you with the two delicate, unbroken fingers I have left.
Between saving you and losing me, who knew holding on could be such a dangerous endeavor?
Sometimes I miss the days when I thought just being available was enough to make us better:
When I believed sharing space, breath, body, pain, life—
Such intimate, delicate, funny little things they are—
Was enough to make the two of us whole people again.
Was enough to make us feel like lovers and friends
Rather than rubber shields against each other’s emotions
The ignorance was blissful then:
The innocence almost felt like safety
A smoke screen whispering lullabies of false reality
“this is real love!”
…or at least that’s how it seemed:
What a dream within a dream…