This is what your voice feels like

I'm peeling the rind. I'm doing it fast - I just hate to waste a minute... a moment.
And there it goes, the blade of a steak knife sears right from the flesh of the fruit to the pink of my thumb and it's beading up now, pearls of lovely heartbeat red. The citrus stings the wound, the blood salty as I kiss my own hand clean. But it looks like your hand. Dry and cracked and desperate for intensive care.

And I take a second to regroup. Regardless how deep, these nicks and scrapes can take my wind. I stop flying. I start falling.
My hands are your hands. My hands are cut all over.

I listen to November Blue on repeat and I cry because it feels so unbelievably good to cry and to feel and to hear your voice. Things you said yesterday ten years ago.

I close my eyes and I feel the skin of your hand. The way my head felt against your chest.

And everything that happens for me is because of you. I swear it.

Fuck my nose won't stop running.

What's that prayer you used to say? I wish I knew the words.
Remember those books we used to read before bed? Mercer Mayer.

~Lo