“Don’t worry about him, he’s just got to much pride to tell you he’s scared about what you will do in his absence.”

My body is swimming in a pool of questions, was it me? was it him? what happens when his aura fills the room and he gets me drunk on shots filled with lusty temptation. I spend the night pulling out all his thorns from my flesh. Every thorn is a memory i spit out. It tastes like the wax from a honeycomb, all this sweetness is laced with anger, it feels like guilt in my belly.

This other one tells me two weeks after silence that it’s hard: “it is hard to pretend that the sun is your warm kiss on my cold cheek this winter. I choke on my bed at night when i dream about you being so far, in the arms of someone else.” I sink into my chair, after years of wanting something that seemed out of reach, after giving in against your gut feeling. I know now never to ignore mother nature. I hope i don’t forget. Again.


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