Except it never goes away, does it? This feeling of missing pieces. Loosed-leaf paper dancing in the visible billowed wind as the fan scans the heated bedroom. It’s 12 p.m. and I taste your sweat on my lips, the tip of my tongue swollen from the thirst of you. || Faltering at the edges, staring at stars. Your eyes. Your skin. The waves of your hair. Reminiscing the six-in-the-morning thoughts that run through my mind like night stallions chasing the mares. || Your love: a mixed tape the car stereo ate; a sell-by-date; batteries not included; rough around the edges; scentless potpourri. || Heated weather. Sweat stains on the sheets. The scratches on my arms. || We were each others first disappointments.
Chapin City Blues 
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