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The One That Didn't Necessarily Get Away, But Fled Like The Sea
I think love has a name and it’s the same name
I used to call out under muffled breaths on
sleepless nights beneath your winter sheets.
There was a stain on your mattress from the
Sunday we decided we would live as tipplers
and drank margaritas at three o’clock in the
afternoon. I think if love had a scent she would
smell like black coffee and oil pastels, the way
you always smelled when you painted in your
kitchen on days where you said you’d rather not
exist and sketched yourself into a different world.
In the mornings she was the birds singing outside
your window and in the afternoons she chanted
the songs of pleasure when you touched me.
I wondered if love always tasted like short-lived
winter nights and cold, sour coffee from three
weekends ago. I never asked her where she
went when she fell slowly from our laps and
then fell apart when she decided to bring you
something better.
