On the Sundays I Cried and Tasted His Kiss.

My eyes closed, he made me breathe, he stopped... and I cried, I drowned myself in the taste of how it should be as he opened me, opened his hand and showed me the way time escapes from us, and I would say... yes... in that moment, I would whisper myself across his hands and we'd watch yesterday scatter, I'd study confusion and laugh. I wanted to tell him that if I walked, I'd stumble, my head would turn backwards towards him waiting to see him run... but I'd never call, not once, not on a Saturday when the sun broke the sky and clouds shattered, pieces of my heart breaking... waiting... for him to understand. Nights followed me and daydreams appeared in his open mouth as I brushed my lips across his shoulders and watched tomorrow come true, and I never wanted much, I never begged for him, I fell to his side, I felt my life dissolve into him, I whispered secrets because when he sleeps... he never hears me... he never knows I'm scared. I wanted to agree, but blue never dropped down in straight lines and I was terrified my tears would fall in patterns that resembled pain, I wanted to open my mouth and show him who I was, but my voice sounds too pretty when I speak his name... I wanted to tell him, but he slept... he dreamed while my secrets kissed his skin and hushed the Saturdays I'd waited for him to call and the Sundays when my tears tasted a little bit like how it should be when my lips still tasted him.