#kaseybroscheit

And these. These are kisses.  the kind of kisses gods pray to.

I'm lighting matches underneath this blanket of snow. Burning parts of me that have always been someone else as I reach towards loving you in the spring.

I want to slow down the seconds when I'm seeing you blush.  Cover me in clothes that smell like this kind of love. Your voice is "fresh out of the dryer" hot on my skin.

I'm holding you so tightly our are hearts beating on each other through our chests. Our love is louder than any music I could think to put on.

And it's just the lighting some days, where that big afternoon sun in warming the skin on my forearm. The only darkness is the spaces we are pulling to close between us.

You're catching your breath in my ear and all I hear are hurricanes named baby. baby. baby.

Deeply mine, and standing here in the damp wind of these days. I am worried my next lover will describe my lips as dry wall stained kiss. ocean eyes and careless waters. frightened by focus. these are the things I am scared of in me. this is what occupies the boredom, this is how it slides by, with my fingers grazing the window. big bold subway train tunnels of sounds speeding through. I’m telling you this is what my head sounds like when there is nothing in my hands. my sleep is so used to the beat of it, maybe even prefers it. my fingertips burned from rubbing the tint off this glass. was your plan to sell the blood of it? sell the afternoon barbecue story of it? ‘these are all the things I am figuring out’ ‘these are all the traps I know about.’ 'these are all the traps I don’t know about.’ just about 6.7 months and a cup of 'its been raining for three days straight’ coffee behind.   the lie that it is 'nothing a free day won’t fix.’ and it’s been hundreds of thousands of dollars, twenty-one years, a couple number two pencils and no one thought it important to to teach me how to be with fear. engage with it. how to not let it sit on top of my chest controlling my breathing. it dances in the stretch, the pull. lingers like two inches of flood on the carpet, and I am realizing the full definition of picking up the pieces. my back stiff from pretending to be a stranger to my own heart. it aches in the morning, when my skin pulls like a full moon across my sheets. I told her I am trying to decide how to get rid of the key I hold to a museum of I’m sorry’s.   When I am asking myself not to put it in my pocket before I head out the door. each day, this race of dogs. this bleed of looking to define my sucess. this weight of change in my pocket, inches away from the chance to bet on myself. this deep fire-cracker risk of self-love. the electronic rise of my heart beat. the settle of touching myself in cicada silence. desperate now for that satisfying exhaustion of chasing it. I am teaching myself to hold fear like a fever in the soles of my feet. like the sweat. like the sand you race her on. Last night I saw a bird pull current over the roof shingles. saliva fills my mouth just remembering it. and I am imagining loving myself in a way that screams lush. breaking fever. quenched thirst. and my lips are wet even at the thought of this peace.

Ok so the truth is I’ve been trying to fly, but it keeps coming out more like shake. drop. digging out from waist deep “I’m sorry”s. Is this romantic? My crawl out. My rip out. silicone glue. fancy dress. Maybe this is fear? It can’t be. fear is drip. fear is falling through my hands. this is something stickier. this is wine stain, honey I’ve found a shirt you’ll keep picturing me in. holding kids in. build in. built in. wet bar. cracked forearm. Craving? No I know craving. craving is the edge of my tongue lacing my inner lip. is making sure you see. is the grip my hand has on your lower back. is the don’t be gentle. No this is something more like bike ride. hands up black out I want to be so close I can feel the wind through your hair as well as mine. skin pricks swell down my neck. My voice soar from screaming “I love you”. My voice soar from gently asking “love me like this”.