pretending, I arrange
pillows, I arrange and
I imagine
the space
you would fill, your
breath's rhythm, your
mouth's heat
by my shoulder,
in my hair, the
movement on my hip of
a single finger tracing
my pale skin.
I imagine
the causal tangle
of our legs.
and then
I close my eyes,
lean into you,
and sleep.
important things
I don't write,
write poems,
anymore.
I used to.
write them
a lot, now
when I want to write about your mouth, and
how your lips would press, and the words were held
behind your teeth
or, years later how
my first taste of loukoumades
created a sensation in my mouth that made
my knees bend, and that when I put my fingers
on my lips to lick them,
I thought of you.
thought of why I used to,
used to write about
the important things,
like the shape of your mouth
and the sensation of honey on my tongue, and
old wishes for us.
then I remember,
remember how
you wouldn't look into my eyes
or touch me
unless you had to, and that,
and that, it was as if
you were afraid.
I don't write,
write poems,
anymore, because my words,
all of them, were for you, and
now I think I should
keep them,
keep them, for myself.
