I wanted to just come home tonight. Close the door and leave the weather behind, like the saying goes. Smell dinner in the kitchen, and let my arms land on your body like two tired birds on a familiar perch.
I would have given up words for the evening, and not missed them. I would have sent depth out the window like a runaway curtain in a drafty hallway, and kept only the surface of us. Smell. Touch. Heat. Motion. The intersection of our gyres, and the explosion that we set off. We do not have a half-life, you and I.
I would have shed the doctor’s office-tainted clothes and slipped your black sweater over my head. Your fingers would have found a shortcut to my shoulder through that little tear in the neck, the one that has a purpose now.
I do not ask for much tonight.
Just for an ocean to freeze over so that I could slide across it like an ice-age Bering Strait.
Lay my head between your chest and your belly and feel your fingers remove my hair from my face, strand by strand.
Press my ear against the pulse where nerve meets even keel, and have you swipe the vapor of longing off my skin like that night you drank my tears.
Feel that effortless othering of our bodies’ natural fit. Have you kiss me like it was a crime, as if we were prisoners stealing one last drop of life before dawn.
Be rocked into sleep as you played music on my spine and gently tapped a beat on my ribcage. Have your black wings envelop us both while we have angelic dreams.