Small Things I Said With You In Mind (They Make No Sense At All)
The things I would like to do are huge. They are beasts.
You and I have stopped catching the eyes of other people, I am twisting your hair into tight little spirals instead. But the things we share are awful. Your sheets are filthy, the 3am half-dressed relationship we have is without kisses and I leave later to sleep alone, because it’s better or easier that way.
If you were to measure my waist you’d say I am full of you and I can see the whole of me only in one of your forearms. All bones and muted skin, you are, I couldn’t even connect the freckles to create a semblance of my initials.
We don’t get sick because we don’t leave the house.
What does all of this remind me of.
(Don’t talk about it, though. Don’t name names. Don’t expose how exhausted your pride is.)
4:40am I watch the numbers on my alarm clock roll over. 4:46am is when I look next, I get up because sleep isn’t coming. Neither is he. He turned my face halfway through and asked if I was O.K because there was silence instead of bruised sighs and undulating moans like there are satin fingers pressing at the inside of your throat, and I said something hurt and he was concerned. And he apologised.
And he lay flat on top of me with his cheek against my chest and everything smelled of him.
And it is terrible but also wonderful that I was lost in the thought of what she would say if she knew.
And so I didn’t know how to tie a tie and I still don’t. For all the internet tutorials available, my harmless fingers are about as useful as thumb-tacks. When I press them to the walls after a late night, when I’m at home, I feel less than connected to anything, though. And the walls, they stay smooth and ambivalent to whatever I say out-loud.
I didn’t go with you to buy jeans because I loved your face and hair, then.
Washed my sheets on a Tuesday, even my duvet, the weather just blinked at me. Sunny, bleak, startling, bland. Running my fingers across the odd hexagonal pattern of my mattress, while the machine spun out the smell of you. Knitting my limbs together. God I wish you were here.
If a pretty face could get you anywhere I would aim for the space between your sheets when the light outsight tells whatever time but your body against the cotton tells you this: You have all the time in the world to just enjoy yourself. All the time in the world. As if every watch on every wrist, with every person’s minutes to spare collects and gathers. And you are naked in a bed with your skin singing and a blind person’s smile, just like everybody else’s.
But you would be there with me, of course. How is time spent at all if not with you.