i.
you press your lips into my shoulder blades along with a thousand words you’ll never say, i can feel each one burn its way down my torso and nestle itself in the soft spots between my ribs. you’ve filled up all of my gaps with silent promises and drunk tuesday nights, and i often wonder if i should be grateful.
ii.
what makes you feel alive? is it the heat of leather seats against your back as you leave behind another city with a name you never cared to learn? i put maps in your glove compartment so you can find your way back to the warm spaces between my fingers when hopeless highway dreams leave you cold.
iii.
you tell me this is the only city you’ve ever come back to, and i am still not surprised to find you gone at sunrise.
iv.
my pillow still smells like rain and cigarettes, so i hold my breath for however long it takes for you to come find me again.
v.
i see right through it when you tell me you don’t love me, but i let you leave my dingy apartment with tears in my eyes, because you are an amazing actor. i scrape at the skin on my arms and try to peel off whatever part of me it is that wants you to come back. i am almost relieved when you don’t. i put my sheets in the wash and lay on my bare mattress and count the soft spots on my collarbone.
vi.
i can feel my gaps returning, and i am sure tuesday nights mean nothing without you.
vii.
you find me next at a bar and you make paper thin promises that you’re here to stay. i am too drunk to care that your words float away in the breeze as soon as we step outside, so i let you lead me home and add to the growing number of lies you push into my spine.
viii.
i wake up and you are looking at me. i have never seen you in the daylight, you are more beautiful than i could have ever imagined without the shadows of lonely nights hiding your eyes.
i ask what you are still doing here,
staying, you reply.
