and I’m trying to expand this poem:
In a perfect universe,
I would be bottomless and ample in all the right places.
You would fall asleep with your hands full,
And I would sip you until my eyes looked like the sea.
We would float endlessly and get lost this way.
I would tell you of a nightmare I had where
I was a bloodied manuscript tucked under the floorboards,
The love story of a decaying city,
An epiphany hanging mid-sentence left to dry this way.
You slid above me with women who taught you how to tiptoe.
You began to walk lightly until wood lost its voice
And splinters couldn’t remind you where find me.
I would tell you about the darkness I found in the obese gut of forgotten.
How my breath seemed to swallow its own memory
Until it could no longer see the hope in its hunger.
And then I would wake up, shaking.
But nothing genuine is coming out.
The unfortunate truth is this: I don’t miss him or love him as much as I should or thought I would. But I still like to think of him, and how he was nothing and everything I’ve ever wanted.