Life Full of Please Let Me Get it Right this Time

On the first night,

he touched me with hands full of intention.

Lips full of love me,

chest full of here’s my heartbeat for you to learn,

eyes full of you are something new and you are so beautiful.

After the third night,

he texts me with uncertainty,

and I can’t help but to think that once again

I am the temporary cure for an empty heart.

He says he enjoys me,

head full of hope.

On the fifth night,

he doesn’t touch me like he used to.

He doesn’t kiss my forehead as I fall asleep.

He doesn’t study my fingers when I touch his face.

He doesn’t look at me from across the room

like I am the most beautiful sunset he’s ever seen,

and I can’t figure out what filled me up so much in the beginning that doesn’t fill me up any more.

Does my skin burn when he touches me?

Have my eyes gone dark, hands cold, chest empty?

Silent phone for two days and I feel like I’ve done something wrong.

He doesn’t get excited to text me anymore,

and I can’t figure out why he is ok with this falling apart.

Empty beer bottle and nine shots later,

and there is a boy in front of me who wants to take me home.

He is slow and blurry and my head is dizzy.

There is a chip on my shoulder and I’m still looking for you in the flashes of the strobe lights.

He touches me and kisses my hands,

and I can’t figure out why the fuck

even when I’m wasted

your face is still on my mind.

I walk back to the motel with his hand on my back and his hoodie over my shoulders,

and all I can think about is wanting to come home to you.

He stays

and he wants to talk about why I have such a sad face.

He wants to kiss me,

but I see serpents on his tongue.

I ask him to leave,

mouth full of I have nothing to give you.

I am afraid to feel another kiss

not as gentle as yours,

to feel okay getting lost in a different smile.

I never want to find a favourite sound that isn’t you laughing.

Your hands are imprinted on me like they were made for me,

and I can’t heal the bruises from under my skin.

You were my summer.

You were the dead blue rose in the back seat of my car,

the messy bed I left in the hotel room,

the dirty roadtrip two hours through the woods on a cliff so high I could have flown had I jumped off.

You were the weekend I realized I wanted to be better.

Nighttime both drags and ends too quickly.

Lonely hands,

sad heart,

bed full of please come back to me.

Perhaps if I learn to quiet my mouth,

I will have silence full of patience,

and time full of baby, I never left.