I can still recite the day’s minutes,
those hours I held with my tongue, trying to swallow
the colour of cherries from your lips into my belly
I still spin time into words,
weave electricity from memories in my flesh
into a cloak of frayed words
to disappear into the moment when
my smile slipped onto your lips.
I thought I felt your breath mist
over branches of bronchioles,
shivering over a barricade of little alveolar fruits
thrilling in my chest, and my toes trembling
against your shins, I remember falling
perched on your lap into spaces in my skin
I forgot I had.
Before, I remember the way I stepped lightly around the snails,
frightened by big beautiful raindrops hammering patterns
into their soft bodies, barely protected by fragile shells and mucus, you asked
if I’d be gentle enough to step around their colourful little shells decorating
the stone path. I wondered if you, twice sized me, could ever step as lightly as I did
but I never turned to check.
And later, the way later your fingers slipped everywhere,
when my body asked to hold your hand.
And in the morning, I left behind little words of hope etched against your teeth –
advice too hastily left for the next girl you open with a kiss:
trust does not always have to be laced with pain.