Careful: Expired Sunshine. Discard.

Tomorrow, well, today, I will write of a love

that is easy, one that is like sinking into the

fresh sheets of your bed after a long day, down

surrounding you, in an embrace so kind your

brain does not believe it is real, because, here,

is rest without a knife to your back; but today,

I will instead open the fridge that has gone bad,

and pull from its guts, the expired carton at the

back, and set on the glass table, my cracked pensieve,

in which I will receive testament of the communion

that was that day; here, is my steady hand, pouring

you out into the gaping hollow of my throat; now,

here, is my bitter mouth, vomiting the sourness of you

into the aging cavity of the pensieve; look, there

is the promise of us floating, placid across the surface,

my head is uplifted to look upon the surface of your face

in the sunlight, the shadows of the trees do not

touch us, this waiting does not touch us, the slamming

breathlessness of death is already forgotten, here only,

is the fragrance of you, the lost confusion of our friends

who do not understand the hesitancy that stays us,

but understand enough, the way we look at each other,

to call it love; I dip my head into the pensieve,

and I do not drown, instead, I breathe easy, like

the heat dappled upon our backs, my fingers

reaching out to smoothen the fierceness of your

singular brow: I have always wanted to touch you,

now, I do; here, is my hand in your hair, here, is us

sharing the old path of three, here is my hand on

your arm, fingers rested on the pale scars beneath

your wrist, you do not shy away from this, you

welcome this, you welcome my knowing.

 

Here you are, kissing me on the cheek.

There you are walking away, smiling.

Here, I am blushing.

 

This carton is empty now.

 

The pensieve is drying.

 

This memory is not bitter.

 

It is just empty.

 

K.N.O.W. April 1-4, 2019. NaPoWriMo Day 3.

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