foreign affairs

I can taste him sometimes, mineral, a hint that disappears like a whisper, I’m not sure I heard, a fine bead of sugary pear inside my cheek, a hum of memories like rain, he is familiar, yet unexpected, like the taste of your own blood. 

His voice reassuring, like a shoreline, puddles of speech, linger in me, permanent, water stains on paper.  Tender and calming, engulfing me with rapture and envy, a suffocated ship without aid. 

I can smell him sometimes, warm with soap, mingled in his chest, hair like broken stitches, curled like seashells. Scalp, saliva, and sandalwood.  Deer eyes reveal a man who had settled for less, hands as tender and strong as his voice, tanned skin with a sheen like pressed Egyptian sheets, a brownie mole that escaped my eyes in the dark.

I can feel him sometimes, beneath the cup of my hand, filling me like dough when it’s pushing into cold stone, warm and buzzing with yeast and elasticity, melted wax, soft as sifted flour, rhythm, kneading, needing.



  1. This is incredible-you're so…evocative. I especially liked "he is familiar, yet unexpected, like the taste of your own blood"

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