All I Know

They say write what you know.

So, I write sonnets dedicated to the freckles on his shoulders. The birth mark on his neck. My kisses smudged into the palms of his hands. The deftness of the blade chopping peppers for my salad and his laughing eyes as I gobble them up, his fingers reaching for a replacement.

The nails on his right hand that pick skillfully at guitar strings and the song he begins to write for me in pieces like my limbs strewn across his bed, my cheek at home on his chest, our heartbeats in quick harmony with our heads.

My scribbles in a journal frenzied with revelation. Happiness.

This most of all:

The tenderness in his eyes right before the words spill out of his mouth

and I mop them up

mop them up with my lips.


9 thoughts on “All I Know”

  1. πŸ™‚ What a lovely thing to know.

    (Btw, dunno if this is just my browser or if you changed something, but the layout looks all wacky.

    1. Maybe because moments, feelings, life in general is so fragile and fleeting.

      Maybe because your eyes are already looking past this, flipping pages to read the ending.

      I’ve given up trying to figure things out.

      I spend my days wrapped up in the moment until the moment ends.

  2. I always feel like I’m intruding on your privacy when I read your blog. You have a wonderfully raw, intimate way of writing that always makes me feel just a little uncomfortable in a strange way. Like… your words can’t be merely read, they’re experienced.

    Gosh, that makes no sense. Wonderful post, anyway.

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