The tumbleweed loves the girl with a savanna mouth
look. i’m a child of the shrublands—
everything about me is painfully dry so i’m
not sure you’ll understand this but the air here
tastes a certain way in november. drags against
your nose & lungs like you’ve just gone for a
run. still this breathlessness you leave in your
wake is something new.
i never intended to live this long. never felt
the need to plan this far ahead, and why would
i? the closest thing to permanence i have known
is the way my lipstick stains everything and mold
grows everywhere my mouth has ever touched:
there’s a power to outliving yourself. i will never
be a girl again; who could do that to me now? like
salve on dry skin.
the point is this: i like it when we’re in your car
and it’s just the two of us and the feeling you
could drive anywhere and still be taking me home.
the slide of your sleeve against my skin when we
reached for the map felt like the rustle of leaves
against concrete and it made me think of this high
desert wind we get. i’d breathe you in,
if you’d let me
kmp is a southern californian poet and an undergraduate student double majoring in comparative literature and anthropology and double minoring in gender and sexuality studies and archaeology. their work has previously been published in The Wall, Neon Anteater Renaissance, New Forum, Rising Phoenix Review, L’Éphémère Review: Issue IV, Disquietude, and Werkloos Mag: “In Limbo”, as well as on their blog https://ashandabstraction.tumblr.com/.