The Scraps Left

As I trace misshapen hearts down her back, I’m trying not to think too much.

We are good music.

She’s speaking unelaborated melodies, singing words I’ve forgotten.

“We still need to go on a date,” she reminds me.

“Is this not a date?” I ask, pulling her small body into mine.

I think of all the things to say, all the ways to make this not real, all the ways to hold off on admittance.

When it rains, it pours.

She watches me from across the fibers, the sheets that will later tease me with faint scents of her honey and lavender.

She is good at many things, but at this she is the best.

I count the freckles on her arm, the scars on her knees,

press the pads of my fingers into her palm

scrawling out messages for her to decode.

I could do this for hours,

every day of our era

lacing kisses down her collarbone

whispering a language we created

when what we had could not suffice

In our native tongue she asks me not to leave

and I fall back into fibers,

hoping I never have to translate this passion for anyone else.

-Alisa