Gently. With curves of her curled
like ferns nestled in wet moss.
A delicate fingertip like baby’s
breath, like a bluebell, like
a forget-me-not dangling
nearby. I memorized her breath.
The cadence, the rhythm. I
memorized her heartbeats, how
many pulses it took for her to turn
over, ask again in that language
of muscle for my warm thigh, my
open palm, my surrender into
the crook of her arm. She likes
the pillows. She likes the upper
hand where she can wake first,
start the coffee, start the morning.
This is the ritual of sharing a day
from start to finish, and I want to
replace her old red toothbrush, know
her schedule tomorrow, hear her mind
winding down before she – miracle! –
falls asleep in my bed yet again.
very sweet :)
oh shut your mouth. i love it when you remind us you are a great poet.
if you want comments i have an opinion about that em dash exclamation point but this basically killed me.
That was beautiful. This post struck me as so personal and vulnerable, thank you for sharing it.
damn. read this three times. this is what every girl wants, someone to write her a poem like this. so vulnerable and soft and open. sigh.
Beautiful imagery, Sinclair. It appears that you breathed in your time with Miss DD. Those memories will be with you for a long time.
Jan
you're a powerful poet. jen is right: this *is* what every girl wants. and i'm so glad it's for my friend. she's worth it. :) you guys are great together.
Sigh… I'm a puddle on the floor and it wasn't even for me. God help the woman.
WOW this is just great.
Aw! Me likey~