You almost saw my secret smile,
lips curving into that thin line
locking shame and pleasure together,
fragile thoughts held between them:
a smile tugging tears out of my eyes.
I taste them on my tongue, salty
like the sea, sharp like lemon zest
against my teeth:
I don’t deserve this.
This is real.
I don’t deserve you.
How can this be real.
When will you end it.
I am making you up.
I am silly.
This is worth anything, even the possibility of a lie.
and when I kiss you,
you taste them too – the salt and the lemon
on my tongue, this
taste of things ending.
Did I leave the idea in your mouth, for you to speak it later?:
“I just… can’t see you in my future.”
Babe, I know exactly what you mean.
Darling, I can’t see my own, ha ha.
“Does…that make sense?”
So much sense.
“It’s ok., I understand – that’s really important.”
I do understand. Instantly.
Of all the beautiful things in the world, the beauty of things ending is the sharpest kind, and kindly sharp.