In the future I will have different colored hair and eyes and I will be three inches taller. I will stand straight-backed and watch you sleeping, no sound in the room except the old fan cutting through dulled air.
In the future I will not feel the pain of our touch and our separation, I will hold you like a heavy coiled pendant around my neck, claiming us in precious metal, unbreakable. Your nipples are flowers, hardly touching earth.
At the beginning, when I was another person, when you were another person, I believe fire rained down from the sky, falling between the pruned winter trees, urging to sprout for spring.
I remember the taste of the metal chairs in the courtyard that no longer exists, though not long ago, young people who knew nothing of our death, sat in those same chairs, pushing hair out of their faces, like you did with mine.
My white jeans, thin like I was, the shape of then, broken and mended, still capable of growth, like the trees, their shorn heads, bald against late chill, the night stretching indivisibly ahead.
I couldn’t drive well. I drove to you. Stray cats wound around the table legs, searching with amber eyes. We drank until our bellies hurt, all I could think about was that. The ache that wouldn’t sate. Your throat.
When I fell beneath you, I let go of the past like an unwanted necklace. I wasn’t her. I was yours. You pushed inside me like an ocean and we stayed, drowning in place, until we could breathe beneath water.
I’ve always been led by passion; it’s my proclivity, it’s your nature. The scars on my timeline attest. You lose focus, each year takes a little more of you away, until you are like a reflection in oil spilt on the road, blurred by rain.
In the future I will have different colored hair and eyes and I will be three inches taller. I will tell you my breasts hurt because your mouth is not on them. They have not outgrown that moment, I have not outgrown that need.
In the future you will lay still, in a way you never could, you will be unrecognizable, and painted over, you will not taste the same, you will not sound the same, things will be so different I will question my sanity.
The train always passed through at 3am. I woke listening to it. Remembering how you moved inside me, bruised me, how I couldn’t wake without wanting you to begin all over again. Purple flowers on the windowsill, stark color against white walls. Nothing else. Just you and I.
It makes a low whistle, it sounds like a woman moaning, it sounds like me. You went so deep you know me better than I have ever known myself, did I hurt you? You ask. I never tell the truth. I say, no, please don’t stop. Until you find a reason to. There is no reason to.
They say drinking dairy causes breast pain, keeps your waist-line thin and your bones strong, but like anything, once you’re older, there’s no nutrition to be found in milk. Better to run. Find that road with the oil again. Scour it with your tired early morning eyes. Looking for you. Trying to find that feeling, where only trees without heads sleep. To the sound of rain and a soreness, lost now, close and yet, not.