What kind of heterosexual façade can you expect me to keep with your chest so close to my face and my arms wrapped around your waist? The kind where I can talk and giggle and make up glances across the hallway, or the kind where I actually have to talk to him and squeal to you over the phone when he finally asks me out?
I know it’ll happen. How can it not. This is where we are. This is our friends, this is our families, this is our lives, our past. If skin could tell a story, we’d have years of wanting behind us and years of torture ahead.
Can you just get that much closer? I can’t tell if you’re mad at me. I can’t read your body as well as I should. Your mind maybe, but your body is unexplored and my fingers can’t keep up with what little time we have. I never thought feeling guilty would make me want to throw up and take it all back just for you. Can just friends do that?
Love can’t possibly mean to you what it does to me. Your love can travel. From one to another to another, your chest and my arm juxtaposing in a million different ways on a million different girls. My love gets airsick, and traveling by car would make it want to turn around halfway for how long it would take to get to you.
My thumb across your hand isn’t enough. If only butterfly kisses were, because then we’d have been together a thousand times over and I wouldn’t feel like I had to vomit in the bad way.
I’ll breathe with my chest pressed to your back, and then maybe you’ll feel more than my heart beating inside my chest.
“Trust me. It’ll just turn out that way. I know these things.” If you had sighed and reached over to squeeze my hand, I would have smiled and put my arms around your shoulders. I would have told you that I knew, don’t worry, I knew, like when I’d shrugged and said “I don’t understand either” when a pie fight ended in having to stop her from crying. Do you worry?
I loved when my lips smoldered into your neck and you sat there, ignoring me. Ignoring how warm my face got even though I had lowered the thermostat to fifty. I could press my lips to that oh so soft skin and you didn’t care, and I could pretend that they wouldn’t come up from the lobby and make us wish we were alone again. Because I hate wishing for something I already have.
I think maybe it’s just everyone. If you don’t want to talk to me, I don’t talk. If you’re mad at me, I let what could have been salvageable turn to dust, and I never feel bad about it. Your flaws can’t compare. I can count how many times I’ve complimented you. Use the stitches in my comforter as a reference.
It started with your arms open wide and a piece of glass pressing into my palm as I leaned forward to prove your point. It should end with the rock scraping at my back because my shirt hiked up. The cliff was always your favorite place. My next groping in the dark will be up to me. If I can stand to be that selfish with your shoulder still engraved into my cheek.