love is exposure.
and maybe not the good kind.
I wish I could write about love.
I wish I could write a poem that expresses how it feels to belong to someone entirely,
To know them inside out and for them to know you the same,
I wish I could write about the way your hand felt on the small of my back,
How that dip in your collarbone fit my chin perfectly,
Or the way your hand tangled my hair.
Or how your arm would always find my waist in the middle of the night.
How we would wake long past noon and stay in bed all day.
I wish I could write a poem that expresses how it feels to belong to someone entirely,
But all I can do is write about how it ended.
How your hand stopped on the middle of my back, like it didn’t remember me.
Or how you would shift your neck so my chin couldn’t fit perfectly anymore.
So our eyes didn’t even meet, and you touched me only where ‘needed’
Or how we began to fall asleep facing away,
No longer matching our breaths,
No longer making sure the blanket covered us both fully.
You slept without one most nights.
Or how I would wake long before 8am and leave,
Because the walk of shame home felt more comforting than the empty words between us.
I wish I could write about love,
The kind of poetry that exposes your true feelings to world,
But the only love I’ve experienced was in your bed, already exposed.
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