mi mon chéri

we will not decay

i'll catch you at fifty, divorced or in love,

drunken hand on my thigh

fitting just like a glove.

I hope I can meet you again when we're old, over a beer, with soft eyes and nothing but smiles over the rough but distant past that all but disappears while we laugh and share, united again for just a short period of time, as if every insignificant occurrence has led to us together and complete, even for one more moment... I think I'm in love with your soul.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

we used to be crooked together

septum ring misaligned, hold on, you’d say,

and with your black pit eyes locked tightly to mine, I’d add a baby to the end of that.

(but only in my mind.)

one hand on my cheek, the other straightening me out.

(I always knew you found the perfect balance when you’d bite your lip and smile light. that and the world around us would start spinning faster and faster but you and I would remain still and constant and encased in an orb of something that existed and will only exist between our honeycomb souls.)

remember how we would put both our rings crooked and wait until someone said something? no one ever did— you were the only one. still are.

stop by sometime. it’s been a while and I’ve forgotten your scent.

promise me you’ll bite your lip and I’ll promise not to let this go.