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.