The past us
would’ve clawed at sheets and clung to skin.
Not content until the scent was merged
and all was bare.
Now the bed is not cold
but burns as we pull away irritated
by touch and held hands only
tug and nip;
so we turn away.
–
The past us,
We would’ve talked this through.
Crossed-legged on your bed at 2:15pm on a Sunday.
But now ‘your goddamn leg hair is just so fucking itchy and
why do you look at me like that?
I’m getting a drink.’
–
The past us,
They would kiss despite the clumsiness
and laugh through, embrace through, love through;
try to keep on.
But slopes slip down and so do mouths,
do I miss you now we’re gone?