Light/Yet by Daliah Kat

Posted on May 11, 2014 by

0


“Before you leave, make sure to close the blinds. I am tired to seeing the lights I begged you to fix flicker,” she whispered against your lips. Then playfully flicked her pointer against your forehead.

 

Go and tell her. Tell her that she’ll unwind as you drag your nails against her skin. That there is something ethereal about the warm puffs that escape her lips.

 

Tell her that when you touch her, it feels like you’re moving your hands in a body of water because her soul pours right into you. That you want to hold her so tightly until your bodies know not to part.

 

Under her breasts and over her last rib, there was a chunk of fat. Her arms wrapped tightly around herself because she felt unworthy. You said to her, “Sweet love, above your breasts there’s heart I swear to cherish. I am a man of faith and you are my cathedral.” Tell her that again.

 

Then say to her that the taste of her salty tears on your tongue is enough to dry your throat out until it’s bleeding. That you’ll hold her heart within your palms and sail it back to a sweet river shore.

 

Go to her and tell her that you’re sorry you never fixed her lights, and that you hope she didn’t wait for too long.

She’ll tell you that she sat on your chair gathering dust, and that her lights gave out shortly after your departure. But then, she’ll smile.

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