is too strong of a word and not
enough of one. How little we still know
of one another,
too long the length of our bodies
unstretched, too many miles between
the press of our lips, like laundry lines strung
between buildings. How domestic.
You always hated that.
We should wait for tomorrow –
like light could cleanse the sins
from our bodies, draw out poison. I say
that this waiting has been long
enough. Instead we kiss
in the way you drain venom
from a wound, bite
down and pull
years of bitterness from blood.
These bruises will linger,
laconic and tight lipped. Your grip
on my hands is the kind that begs,
the ways we are best loved.
In the kitchen, the drip of coffee and sizzle
of water on the hotplate, sink full of weak winter
sunshine. It is easier
like this, morning light
edges. Soak in it, let the loss of two people
who have crossed oceans
By Katy McAllister
Katy is a garden enthusiast from Michigan. She enjoys sunshine and being left alone like many cats.