Love As An Act of Russian Roulette

writingsforwinter:

The night we hid in your car beneath the new snow,

pressed into one another by the weight of the avalanche,

I reinvented all the time I’d spent before you.

I brought back the dinosaurs from extinction, Anne Frank

from the brink of death, 20,000 stars from their brilliant

explosions of decay in darkened skies.

Your tongue fit into my mouth like an apricot pit

into an apricot; now it fits there like the hand of someone

turning the doorknob to their childhood home:

familiar and at once too far away. Those mornings

we only survived because of caffeine, the underwear

we danced in through ten rainstorms, until the rain

filled your ears and I drank it out, the bloodstains

after the first time together. Amy Winehouse said

love is a losing game, and now whenever I see you

walking hand-in-hand with another woman,

my heart wishes it could play a drinking game

with my arteries, just so they could get so drunk

they’d stop supplying it with life-giving blood.

But Amy got it wrong: love is not a losing game;

it’s a water balloon fight that ends

with one person being soaked to the bone

while the other remains perfectly dry.