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The Philanderer
The imprint of your teeth
still sit between the bruises grazed
across my neck from the night
you were so hungry for my skin
and I
was so intoxicated by your scent
Remember earlier that day?
You were scrawling secrets
on the inside of my thighs
and I was responding breathlessly
as if we had our very own
language (where we only use
our tongues)
You told me a story
about your aunt in Colorado and
I told you about the time when I
was five and almost drowned
and now I am afraid of the ocean
In the mornings while I am away
and the light from my blinds leaves
a glare on my sheets, I imagine you
in your new apartment tracing secrets
onto someone else’s skin
Your voice
still reverberates across the room
when it is dark and the atoms
in my body degenerate
I still
don’t go near the water.
(2013)
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