On nights like tonight, I find my hand resting on the curve of your shoulder, right at the place where your collar bone juts out and your freckles stop descending. Your elbow crooked in the turn of my waist; skins cool from fan blade kisses. I need to stretch the space inside a second big enough to hold the way you make me feel, bottle up the scent of your skin for when the sun rises. On days like today, my skin feels too rough. I find myself saying that I never wanted all of this, that it was never mine to grab with hands too small and trembling and looping themselves into and out of this mess that we’ve made from the pieces of ourselves. Even pieces are falling apart. Our knees are sticking to themselves these days from the sun’s enthusiasm and the broken way our sheets lay and I think my fingers are stretching towards the way your smile curves.
(June // 12 months)