daynabhattiroberts.blog

golden hour in crossmore, and the boy i had to hide from next door, when i felt your hand grasping mine 

your mother left for the city towers, and she left a note on your empty fridge, just to show that she remembered 

in the morning, in your green front yard, in your blue bathing suit against your sunburnt skin, i watched sweat build on your lip 

all the longing of those summer days, in your too tight blouse, at church that day, i kneeled for my sins 

wednesday night at the butcher shop, i watched that knife carve into that mouth, and i knew june had begun 

in the morning, tucked in your bed, with your shirt tugged up and my lowered head, you confessed to being scared  

when you reached out through the panes of light, and i watched the freckles tracing up your thigh, i knew i should be scared 

monday night when i reached out and the keyboard clicks and your pen and my mouse cut through that distance 

to the city towers, when i left you there, when i ran down those stairs, when your teeth were bared, and i sounded just like your mother 

in the silence of an opened drawer, a closed door, and a towel hitting the floor, i knew i had to go home 

on the train ride to our crossroad town, to your furrowed brow, to your paper frown, i finally was scared 

all the knees bent at the pews back then, at your unmade bed and your warm breath, nothing ever felt so holy 

the freedom when you cupped my face, when you held my waist, into that place, and i saw it in your eyes 

the freedom when we went inside, and the neighbors died, and your dress untied, and i knew we’d be alright