It’s the mornings I wake up forgetting who I am meant to be
It’s the sheets that smell like lemon and sadness and sex
It’s the half cracked window wearing webs of sound from outside
It’s the golden crumbs of dreams I crumble and wear on my fingertips. (Do the dreams forget me, like I forget them?)
It’s the difficulty breathing that makes me realise that something is taking my breath away
It’s the moments, and hours, and months and years I wait for the sweetest man to bring me bitter coffee
It’s the afternoons I forget about the sun’s funeral
It’s the dry hands and baby freckles, addicted to the tickles of sunlight
It’s the burnt limbs, the fiery tongues, and the kisses that overheat us
It’s the way I see the sun rise in the mirror, through my camera, in the sheets, in my thighs, in your eyes
It’s the undressing of my layers, the peeling of worries, the ripping of dead skin, the stroking of scars
It’s the chewed fingernails, the strings of “sorry” and strokes of “sweetie, I love you. It’s okay, I am here”
It’s the nights I forget what was wrong many nights ago
It’s the dinner we made, the spicy burns of our pasts, the skin graph to heal the wounds now, the meat of our hearts to feed our future
It’s the hours I ignore our middle child- Present, to worry about the future of our Future, and grieve over the past of our eldest. But you call me a good mother, a good lover and hold my hand in the now
It’s the moments I let the ghosts kiss me good night on the cheek. The moments it hurts to be haunted, to be hollow. But then you fill me
It’s the undressing of sheets, with cold arms waiting to be hugged
It’s the minutes I stroke into your back how perfect you are, and how broken I am
It’s the times you tell me that cracks let the light in, and I am not broken or bruised- just an old book with an old soul, sitting on a high shelf where only people who appreciate my past, who appreciate my value and the strength of my spine, can reach me, hold me, keep me.
It’s in the dog-eared corner of the sheets that I find her again, the girl I thought I was meant to be.
It’s her cigarette-stained fingers and dying leaves of green eyes that make me reach for the sweetest man’s hands, for the sweetest man’s heart, for the real me
I reach for the night we met, the time someone took me for who I was, morning, noon and night.