Don't Be Mad

prose

Don’t be mad.
Don’t be mad at me anymore.
You’d think after some time, you could possibly let it go.
Or you think I could.
But we try to, I believe, anyway.
It’s a pattern that repeats itself in the way
In the way we speak to each other.
Or the way we
Touch each other during dinner
With our eyes
And touch each other with our hands
In the car after.
It's your fingers that are pleading for your
Mind to love me
(Like you used to)
It is our lips crushed together that are desperate
To repeat love love love
Without remembering any of the pain
That followed.
But I bite your lip now, and that’s different.
And we are a couple of years older,
That’s also different.
And it’s funny how bittersweet this can be,
Kissing you, because I can cry at the same time too.
Because even though our tongues are touching
Even if your hands are on my hips right where
I want them to be permanently
It’s like you’re hurting me
Still.