If I don’t write
On the very first page of a notebook
Then I haven’t really used it yet.
It doesn’t count.
I could talk for days
But only to the right kind of person.
The kind that doesn’t care that I don’t shut up
And doesn’t give a fuck that everything I say
Is inappropriate, or intense,
Or that I giggle when I’m nervous.
Like velcro on a sofa, or sprawled out in bed,
Between smoking and fucking,
Or when the cocaine is wearing off
And nothing is working quite right anymore (for either of us),
We talk and talk –
Legs between legs,
Fingertips drawing patterns on body parts.
I trace over your scars.
The sigh of the curtains
Blowing back and forth in the breeze
Punctuates our whispers
And glimpses of the sun and the moon remind us there’s a whole universe to ignore.
When our faces are so close
We’re using each other’s breath
To kiss out a conversation
Like being nibbled by a butterfly.
I love that.
But I don’t keep my eyes open in such close proximity.
Usually. Unless you ask.
Or tangle yourself in my hair.
The reason it’s so important
For me to still impress you
Is because I was on the verge of giving up.
You saved ‘me’ (and this)
So if I no longer thrill you
What am I supposed to do?
This time next year
Who will you wish I was writing about?