This is what I remember: your mom hated when I gave you hickeys. You’ve reeked of her cigarettes since we were thirteen but I heard you smoke your own now. Your skin was so soft it could make fresh sheets feel like sandpaper. After school on the day your dad died, a few hours before you got the call, you told me I was beautiful and we fucked in the living room. After his wake you cried so hard you threw up. After his funeral I don’t think you really looked at me for months.
This is not a love poem. This is a collection of facts. This is hindsight 20/20.
This is me lapping at your neck like a puppy, licking my lips before each kiss, mouth full of glue, chapped and peeling. This is me prying your skin open with clumsy hands for one last taste of the flesh beneath. This is me scratching your head in my lap. You braiding my hair. Me tying your shoe. This is the night we fell asleep on the couch, when your brother came home early to find two children shirtless and sweaty, ravenous, grabbing at each other with a hunger greater than he had ever felt.
I have spent two years trying to spin you into poetry only to find you made of stone. I rub my hands together for heat but no matter how warm I cannot melt your ice.
This is what I remember: I used to have open palms and within them you’d ooze like honey, one day you became less malleable. They’ve been fists ever since. This is not a love poem. This is an apology letter.