Art by Brennen Bariso
We don't have to talk about it. The buzzing fire alarm, the sound of the engine in that gray car, your hands feeling more kind and familiar than my own. I laid in our bed, became one with our bed, remembering when I opened up my ribs for you and you just blew sand in me. Can you remember the taste of the last meal we ate together? I chew only the skin of a fuzzy peach and I suck on the pit until its roots grow under my tongue. Then I spit out my tongue. White socks, a trip to Chicago, cold light. Mouth open, tongue and teeth ache. I live alone now. Do you know what it’s like to come home to someone?