I don’t want to write today.  I don’t want to write my soul into words.  I’m not ready to see on paper what it keeps telling me in trembles every other step I take. 

I don’t want to write today.  I don’t want to admit to my hands they feel pain. 

I don’t want to let them ache. 

My heart knows my soul.  They aren’t talking right now.  I won’t let them.  But when you know someone well enough, you don’t need to talk to know they’re in pain.

I miss this place.  I miss her.  Hers was never a name I imagined beside mine.  Even for a short time.

Her name tastes like temptation and a rich dose of dark black East African danger.

I didn’t know tasting her in public would taste so good.  Her mouth was the perfect combination of everything I didn’t know I wanted. Like gin stained uncertainty.

I could taste the curious on her tongue.  It tasted like me and summertime.

I find my broken on her lips.  With each kiss there’s less.