I have been playing the same songs again. Soft voices, whispers that land on my peeling shoulders like feathers. They remind me of you, the way your arms would stretch out of car windows to catch firefly wings inside your palms. How you said that the wind was your favorite thing to taste and I would smile so you wouldn’t know that my favorite taste was you. I’ve always tried real hard to not make you the center of the universe, afraid that you will let it get to your head but the planets and stars continue to live in your skin, galaxies drifting around you like smoke, and I think I saw the sun and the moon inside the cigarette burns that run down your arms. You spilled red wine on my beige bedroom carpet once, leaving a heart shaped stain and I’d like to think it’s your heart saying, “I’m yours.” So I never did change that carpet you know.
i’ve always tried real hard to not make you the center of the universe, afraid that you will let it get to your head but the planets and stars continue to live in your skin; galaxies drifting around you like smoke
