I remember the silver light from the big window far away from the bed as you kissed me so hard my back cracked, the way we tore into each other as if to wound, my bones finding yours beneath the flesh. I did not know the moon would find its way into your chest, replace that endless pulse, would still me so, would thrill me. And your back arching above mine, rising to the ceiling and then down again, holding on to me as some far off star collided with the planet that would cause its infinite death. The late echo of every night before then, nights I looked at you as if disappearing, as if it would crush me to remove my eyes from yours. Each one folded into itself and became a larger echo, an echo we stuck our entire bodies through until they ended up on the other side.
I remember someone’s mouth on someone else’s ribcage, moving lower, pink blending itself into the sky like wine, a cigarette flaring in the distance, and I was ready, I was ready to be the rain you left behind. Only the instinct of my lungs; the only reason they kept breathing was to keep pace with yours, to match them, to go above and beyond. If there was wind that night, I didn’t hear it.
There were dreams inside you that were voiceless as you kissed me, this never-ending want, circle of geese outside the window. Wanted you to drown me until the real tides came in, until the morning arrived and dawn washed us in its arms like the light in someone else’s painting. I was unfolding, evolving; how did anyone ever live without arms for this, without fingers for this, without you?