it slips away, slowly
Your kiss now speaks of dried up memories, of mummified dreams we once swirled on our palms, arid and syrupy like your parched lips. That kiss used to give me something better than ambivalence. I don’t remember what exactly. But it had been there before, always leaving a tickly haze in my mouth. Now your kiss leaves nothing but entangled cobwebs on my gums like bland cotton candy that refuses to melt. The residue of betrayal blackens the teeth, they say. I wonder if it would also cause my braces to rust, the way your heart rusted two months ago. I prefer lust than rust. But even that is no longer there, having left the moment you confessed you had thought of leaving me. I don’t want tears to moisten your scorched lips and make them supple again. Tears well up from somewhere less noble, somewhere too shallow for pain to wade in. I brew blood and sulphur in a deeper, more intimate place, beyond the reach of tears. Oh but you can’t see it. Not when your kisses merely take me to the bliss of minor distractions. I won’t ask you about love and its absence again. I would rather scratch off my scabs and let the wounds bleed copiously. It amounts to the same thing.
I see memories flying with dry leaves, conniving with the wind to take them farther than my imagination could ever fathom. They will be preserved there, wherever that is. And I would be preserved, too, as I kiss you and imagine my memories of your love intact in some place I cannot visit.