breakfast

I eat words for breakfast.

words typed out on crisp, new pages

and those highlighted to remember

just how sweet they tasted

the first time they reached my mind’s lips;

words said, and

those not

and all the other ones that remain

suspended

with every passing day

as we push each other

further and further

apart.

Sundays

Stay in this bed

with me

Let me tangle my legs with yours, make of your body my drum, trace geographic patterns with my fingernails along your back, inhale the scent that lingers in between the beginning and the end of your neck

Let me write you some words

Let me taste your lips, your skin, your tongue

Let me learn the sound your breath makes when you’re lingering in the space between fast asleep and awake

Let me do what I do best

Let me love you