مكتوب

each lover has a theory of his own about the difference between the ache of being with his love, & being alone.

This is the history of fuck you for
making me soft, for making me maleable,
for doing more than just testing my waters,
fuck you for making the oceans of me
feel so puddle at the sight of you.
This is the history of my mattress,
that has seen more mistakes
than I am sober enough to remember.
This is another man’s neck
and your name whispered against it.
This is not forgetting. This is trying to.
This is not enough ways to give up
as I thought there would be, only the one
with your caller ID and a hangover.
This is the history of love.
This is a rare thing, a history
written by one who did not win.

You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won’t tell you that he loves you, but he loves you. And you feel like you’ve done something terrible, like robbed a liquor store, or swallowed pills, or shoveled yourself a grave in the dirt, and you’re tired. You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and you’re trying not to tell him that you love him, and you’re trying to choke down the feeling, and you’re trembling, but he reaches over and he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your heart taking root in your body, like you’ve discovered something you didn’t even have a name for.