literature

sillage

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Literature Text

I hated that we were drunk when we made love,

but you were smoking your anxiety and
tossing me beers and
one bottle became a dozen and
we kissed in the bathroom at the bar and
pressed our curves into a Picasso and
maybe I fell a little,
but you caught me.

Our time remaining became scant hours and hazy memories
but I remember sitting in the backseat and
I kissed your knuckles when you bloodied them and
we drank some more while dancing in your living room and
we made the bed ours if only for the night.

In the morning you begged me not to leave and
it sounded like the most beautiful thing in the world and
I wonder if you'd still mean it,
but I already know the answer so no,
that wasn't a question,
but tell me again. God, please say it again.

Instead I left with your scent wrapped around me—
    My God, you smell so good
—and some bruises from your fervent appetite and
every intention of feeling you again and
again and
again.

You told me you had no regrets and
I told you the same thing,
but I lied. I lied because
I hated that we were drunk when we made love
and I can't remember all the details and
the routes we traced and
the places we pinned on our maps,
but I remember...

it was love.


--
9/25/2013

Copyright © 2013 Jen Fowler
All Rights Reserved
sillage /'sE-yazh/
French
(n.) the scent that lingers in the air, the trail 
left in water, the impression made in space
after something or someone has been and
gone; the trace of someone's perfume
© 2013 - 2024 BeyondJen
Comments22
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leyghan's avatar
Sometimes you read a piece that blows you away. This is one of those pieces. A poem to remember indeed!