What haunts me most is my imagining how perfectly she fit inside the curve of your tender spooning all of those years.
Knew the secrets your body never needed words to speak. She could hear all the places your bones would creek.
Felt the recoil of your skin when her breath was hovering over the right moment meets perfect time... and place.
And your little earth quakes would move whatever was solid beneath your hips- belly-
bottom lifted into the wet of her begging.
It says a lot about what we are NOT that we wake every morning to sheets that haven't moved.
I'd rather them be in piles on the floor- us tangled in the dirty laundry.
Dust balls clinging to our still moist places.
Explaining that gruesome bruise I earned from landing first on my chin before your mouth raced to follow all the spots that do not see daylight except for when sunrise catches us like paparazzi chasing sex scandals.
I see green when I imagine all the times you called her name and sliced your fingers on her hair as it seemed to cut off oxygen to your grasping hands- pulling her in closer to the flailing truce flag still clinched between your teeth.
And I wonder if you remember the way you kissed me up against the closet door that day- all disheveled and missing the mark- how my jaw was shaking with inadequacies.
I go to sleep each night in hopes you will teach me how to kiss you. Wake me- show me the ways to transcribe our crooked letter language. Even if it means we take up miming in silence- wearing hearing aids and kid gloves.
There is nothing more sacred to me than earning your Bliss.
While I may not fit perfect in the curve of your spoon- I well mean to cradle you till you trust in your own Shine.
--amy joon
