Peeled Shoulders

leaving doesn't have to be physical.

Lips chapped like Shaved Ice.

My knees burnt an Indian Summer red.

Shouldn’t this feel alright?

This rust setting in

with its grinding and attempts at grounding my multitudes of universes?

But my insides bubble at the thought of your fingertips.

You keep pretending to be pretentious.

Your arrogance could separate air molecules.

Your self-confidence,

absolute,

reigns unchallenged- manageable,

sometimes endearing enough

to spiral adequate warmth down my vertebras to properly straighten me,

accidentally contending for posture

almost as good as yours.

 

Here comes trouble.

Branches scrape my cheeks with imagined ferocity.

If trees had eyes

maybe I’d be caught in the middle of something

shirt-tattering and earth-shattering,

or maybe they would be like life-size dolls

constantly afraid of piercing themselves.

There would be tentative tree hugs

and chaste tree kisses.

 

I wanted to turn the lights off and

inhale your blackened voice.

You never have to miss me.

My being gone can’t be geographically located.

I never need to be anywhere

to be there.

 

My mouth is still strawberry colored and your shirt is still wet.

I don’t mean to be insincere, but you smell like sunshine.

 

How long until my bruises fade?

There is no physical hurt, but an emotional burn

like drinking tea too fast

and scalding my throat

with the bitterness and strength

of packed heat.

You could have stayed.