In This Story #5

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

This is probably already up but I can't see it and I just want to make sure, you know

In this story, there is someone else. She doesn't have your green eyes, but she wears a mint sweater that swamps her body and falls past her knees. It slips off her shoulder and I press my lips to the circular scar on her collarbone from when she fell while riding her bike. She rubs my fingers with her thumbs like you do and she holds my face when she kisses me like you. She presses me against the door in the mornings before I leave the flat and she clutches at my hips and whispers into my neck that she loves me, she loves me, she loves me. I am all hands that don't know what to do with themselves. I am flighty, scattered, and she takes ahold of my hands and counts out my fingers individually for me. She tells me she is real, I am real. This is real. In her hands, I am breakable and willing. My back bends over her arms around my waist and she fills my lungs with the heat of her breath. She only ever touches me softly. Her lips on my stomach, my teeth at her throat. Her lips, her lips everywhere they find a slip of skin. She spells letters on my navel with her tongue, she tells me she is always rediscovering my body. Her gray eyes are looking into my eyes and she is saying, "I am watching you lose your path. I love you like it isn't possible to love you any more than this." I am always apologising, spilling the words from my mouth into the lap of a girl who doesn't need to hear them to know. I can tell I'm talking too fast and there isn't anywhere for the letters to go so they climb back into my throat and make a fist there. I get reckless when I want to be touched. I walk into traffic. I lie. I bend the pages down in her favourite book and put it in the wrong place on the shelf. I want things that only glorious people should have the luxury of having, but she gives them to me anyway. She kisses me spineless. 

 

But in this life, this real life, there is only you. You with your green eyes and rough hands. You holding my wrists above my head and clasping my throat in your palm, too tight. You with your backseat quickies and your impatience. You when you get mad at my excessive calling and hanging up. You when you tell me to stop moving, you're trying to sleep. You twist your fingers in my own and say, "I think I could love you one day, but god fuck, you're so messed up." 


Submitted: September 13, 2015

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