THE PARTY

Your tongue is in my mouth in the kitchen at the party.

Why the fuck am I at the party?

My dress is too tight for you to get your hands under,

but I left my panties at home tonight

and I’m dripping down my thighs.

My lipstick is smeared and there are people

probably staring

but fuck them anyway.

It’s been a year and a half

of throwing glances in hallways,

and my hair standing on every end when you appear

and breathe down my neck

(so tell me, how the fuck I’m supposed to keep my cool)

So we leave for one night and it turns into ve mornings.

Waking up and staying in bed for a couple extra hours

so I can see what color your еyes are

in that special light wе only see at 6 a.m.

That silver peeking through the cracks

around your blackout shades

and bouncing o your brown eyes

that send me into a fully caffeinated rush

Like they’re soaked in coee grinds

and I can see the steam rising o of their surface

when your gaze sets me on fire.

So we turn up the heat again.

And your sweat is dripping off your chest

and your open fist is around my neck

and I’m grinding into your lap,

rocking my hips against your weight

to match the ins and outs of your breathing.

(Can you tell that this is the pattern I’m following?

Your breathing quickens…)

Your teeth are in my skin

and you’re pulling bers of tissue from my lips and I wonder,

If I bleed, will you like the taste?

Now we’re driving down the highway

and my head is in your lap.

Tasting the salt of your skin

and feeling you grow in my mouth

and the hum of the engine

is like a million fingertips between my legs.

There are people passing by in their cars unaware

and unassuming

but I’m praying they’ll look over and watch me worship you.

Watch me work

to assure

that there is not a single millimeter of space in my mouth

that isn’t lled.

Your hair falls out of place

and you clutch the wheel

and press your belt into my cheek.

I hope it leaves a mark.

And days later my tongue feels

like it doesn’t fit in my mouth the same without you in it.

It’s your laugh, and your calculating eyes.

Your wrinkled brows and the static in your grin

when you can’t think of the right words to say

and I know it frustrates you

because words are the only thing

you’ve ever had total control over.

It’s the feeling in my stomach

like the moment

you drop a scoop of ice cream

into a root beer float

and the entire thing threatens to bubble over.

Carbonated

and chaotic

in my chest.

It’s the sheer comfort.

You’re as vibrant as a stranger,

but as warm as a friend.

Like every day

I get reintroduced to someone I’ve known my whole life.

Like meeting myself in a mirror.

The way you take over my entire body

and mind

like you’re putting your own personal lter over the lens of my life

so that I see it in your colors.

And my hands shake

and I swallow hard

when I realize how much nicer life looks in your saturation.

My brain buzzing

like the rattle of a neon light

at odd hours of the night

when I’m pacing

and wringing my hands,

counting the days till I see your face again.

And the irony in how fine life seemed before.

How quickly you made it seem like

nothing

would ever suce

without you,

a part of it.

Why the fuck was I at the party?