Remember that time you told me you had the kind of anxiety that spread to the very tips of your fingers as you tried to bracket off your disillusionment and apathy long enough to just focus on trivial shit to get by? That all you actually wanted to do was crawl back into bed that morning with a pack of menthols and not think for a few fucking minutes? And I said sorry even though I didn’t mean it. Didn’t know what to be sorry for. Silence. Inhale. Exhale. I listened to my lungs dip and peak as they gasped against the burning. Rawness in my throat. Inhale. Exhale. Deep tongue kisses on the open mouth. Nicotine and salty skin. Swollen pomegranate lips.
Remember when you told me my pink lip reminded you of strawberry ice cream on a hot summer day and I started melting like a popsicle standing by the tomatoes at Publix? And later when you said Heidegger was the only one who really got it—it being the thisness you didn’t feel I could understand about you even though I’d seen all of you naked except for your feet because you always forgot to take off your socks when we fucked. Heidegger never saw your naked body with the light streaming in through your shitty curtains in the middle of the afternoon. He never watched you mark papers with a red pen and box wine. He never had to sit through one of your mother’s casserole dinners while making small talk with your sister.