warm bread

A poem about memory, intimacy, and the strange mercy of being known

I've been inside my head all day,
rattling through old light,
chewing on the dust in my lungs
But now I’m peeling out of myself,
blood-warm and barely real.

Put your coat on,
the one that smells like storms and warm bread.
We’ll walk into the rain
like it owes us answers.
Each drop a small baptism,
each puddle a broken mirror
where your mouth still trembles
like a secret trying to die.

How were you to know?
That I left pieces of you
under my tongue,
that your silence wore my skin like silk.

Take all of it,
the cracked laughter,
the hours we spent sewing each other shut
only to rip the seams open again.
We spend the evening
interweaving,
finding the shape of our sorrow
in the curve of a collarbone.

I wanted to ask you
why we keep doing this,
but instead,
I memorized your shoulder
as if it were the one place
in the world that ever forgave me.

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More soon.

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