Your fingers tickle, but it’s nice to be
touched. You run them along my ribs
bouncing like a skier over moguls. The
heat in your cheeks means
it’s only so long before you crash
into my body.
And you do. You kiss and you tell
me I’m pretty. You’re a little lower
than my ear, and I wish I could keep
your breath for the walk home.
My own never seems to warm me
like yours.
I’ll write some lines about you —
about us later, and I’ll be a stray,
and you an abandoned home or
I’ll make the whole thing more
complicated than it really is. You
can be a bear trap that clamps
and severs my gangrened leg.
Sometimes I write a poem for you
and the only real progress I make is
deleting it all.
So you can etch one for me on
my back. You’ve covered it in red
lines already, but I promise it never hurts.
Mark me like an essay, baby, but
be gentle. I’ve always been insecure
about my prose.
Now your heart is racing and mine
is radical. I’m too shy to say
I want it all, so I’ll bite and
I’ll claw you like a dog,
all because I want to bleed.
Your hands on my throat
grow rose petals in my eyes.
It’s hard enough to breathe
through my own two lips
but I find it quite easy when
I’m gasping through yours.
I wrote you as a thorny flower
in some sonnet I tossed in the trash.
Lovely to look at, but painful to
touch. But that felt overdone.
I called you a lot of things before
I accepted that you don’t hurt me.
I thought good love would make
boring poetry.
I know I’ll never write your name,
so I whisper it in your ear and you
tell me mine in return. It sounds deeper
than usual, raspier, like you have
sand in your lungs.
You grab me by the chin and grip
your thumb behind my teeth to pull me in.
And you ask if it feels good, but
you’re holding my tongue, so I just
nod, and you smile, and I’ve never
wanted you more.
We slow down, and you keep your arms
around me. It’s dark but I can see you
with my fingertips. I’ve so much to say
but nothing I want to. I’m sorry
for keeping so quiet, hoping
you’d hear me anyway.
In the night I have a dream where
I write the perfect poem, a long metaphor
with tasteful imagery. It’s everything you are
and everything you are to me.
I write it in ink and I show it to you
and you say, “I don’t get it,”
and I say “Yeah, me neither,”
and then I wake up.
The snow looks so nice from your window
until I’m walking through it.
Thomas Riley primarily writes social satire and stories about politics and philosophy. Write to them at tjr83@pitt.edu
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