Playing at Conjuring

Playing at Conjuring

If I repeat the moments enough,

perhaps the feelings will return

it is not fair,

how easily emotion physicalizes

in the stories of others,

but only manifests as void

in mine.

Why must I stress I was happy then?

Planked above your body

and bathed with the warmth of a fake fire,

an oversized blanket,

your hands around my neck,

and your want, saying again

and again

in so many words

“just

kiss

me

already.”

Is it the memory of the fear that stops the blush of my

cheeks now?

How bewitched my courage was,

frozen stiff as a board?

Logisticizing all of the reasons

to close so small a distance

and make so small a physical contact,

but so huge a moment of life?

By gods I was happy then,

experiencing my first kiss,

where is that feeling now

in this memory?

All I can see

is myself,

and all that I feel

is empty.