I/We by D.

Posted on March 3, 2015 by

0


We wear each other’s skin like one another’s over-sized shirts. When it’s too dark, she’ll wear me like a home she wove herself into. Our flesh is accidentally sewn as one. When she burns her tongue in the kitchen, mine will sting from the couch. We’ll taste one another like cherry whine somewhere in the middle. This is deeper than coexistence, we exist not to one another but for. We love so deeply, there are parts of me more hers than mine. My shirt still smells of her soft hours later at work. When our skin and bones have had warmer days, together we will be warmth. I tell her I love her like a city I am forbidden to enter again, but I’ll love her, even from afar. She tells me her skin is empty for my touch. I will come closer. I will touch her everywhere. Our skin will bruise like fruit and each will taste of the other’s tongue. Her tongue tastes like coming home. When we’re in our truck driving places we have yet to know, I know of the cities beneath her skin, in the stead of those on the outside. The outside is an irrelevant blur when I look at her, and God, do I look at her like Vancouver. I like to think it is why we always drive back home. She carries her chest like a globe. When my hand is pressed to its left, I feel it screaming, “You are here.”

Honey, you are here. We are here. I look over at her in that passenger seat she wears elegantly and smirk, it’s just you and me, babe. It’s you and me.

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