Your mouth hasn’t been on mine for nearly six months
and, most days, I’m not thinking about it.
I swear, I’m not.
But those days that I am, and I promise it’s not often,
it’s always about your mouth. Or your freckled arms.
Maybe your eyes and their uncanny ability
to look straight through me.
Your annoyingly sharp wit.
It’s your laugh and intellect,
your conversationalist skills that make me want to fucking take a class.
Gotta learn how to keep up with you.
You tell me you’re no good and I agree.
I paint myself like a saint when
I’ve been sleeping with the devil longer than I care to admit.
No time for you and me, baby.
I’m consumed with my own sadness.
Don’t you see?
I don’t have it in me for yours.
…Except, I do. I could easily allocate minutes,
hours, days. Months even, should you ever tell me you need me.
My sadness wants to fuck your sadness.
I can’t say that out loud because someone is going to shout, “THAT’S NOT HEALTHY!”
I don’t want to spend the night,
but still wanna know how you take your coffee.
It’s not enough to like someone, you gotta
not text them back first.
This non-committal thing I’ve got going still
finds itself making out with your memory.
Call it what you want.
An interest in things that will bring me pain; masochist heart.
I still think about your mouth.
I’m always thinking about