Twenty-eight


Drippy.
It was drippy that night. You held my hand as my knees buckled,
like Bambi on ice.
The perfect curve of your lips, like a field veiled in dandelions,
inviting me to lay down and rest awhile.
The unfamiliar taste of mouthwash and spit infused my lungs,
as your tongue greeted mine with an untidy hello
that rang through my entire body like church bells. Or cannons.
I giggled.
Together we built a fort out of an embroidered duvet cover.
We told secrets.
We swore on fearless hearts, untouched by a world
that can barely figure out how to love itself.
Like lightning kissing a velvet sky, you were gone.
Our bed cloth world was torn into a million pieces.
Now, I stand in the middle of the wreckage with a shred of
us in my fist hoping that by some miracle,
the wind will pick up, and blow all of your pieces back to me.
But you are gone. All that's left are pieces of my own.
Pieces that I didn't know existed without you.
I keep searching, hoping that someday,
I can gather up enough of these pieces,
sew them together with thread spun of memories and lessons,
that I can wrap myself in on a drippy spring night
and feel just as safe, in a world that I have created,
with my own two hands.

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