treatswords

The shadow beneath your arm bent in a crook.

Angled, in thought.

You’re quiet, as you are when you’re lost in an idea.

I would give anything to be inside your mind.

Walking through the gray creases, putting my hand inside, wet, and cool, to see what I’d find.

Something deep, smooth, a hint of navy.

I remember your lips on my neck.

The first time I felt you on me.

Walking to breakfast the next morning with a deep blue hickey on my neck.

A mark from you.

Thankful it couldn’t wash off, I pulled my hair to one side, letting the bruised oval shine.

It sparkled in the sun like sapphire on our way back to your apartment.

Styrofoam boxes in hand, yellow egg dripped down my shirt.

I’d let you in and you did the same.

I wasn’t afraid of you.

The skeletons you had in your closet; I could handle.

Moving hangers around, plastic snapping.

Navy pressed collared shirts, white buttons.

I peeked the skeletons there, on the wooden shelf in a box.

The bones stacked in an organized manner, tibia aligned with fibula, two femurs tied together in a pair.

You were always methodical.

I noticed your spices lined in alphabetical order.

Later, we talked about how we were supposed to go blueberry picking on our first date, but the rain washed us into a brewery for golden glasses of hops.

“Do you think we’d still be together if we’d gone blueberry picking that day?” He asked.

I pondered, remembering his kind face across from me at the wooden table outside.

The gentleness I’d felt, the intense way his brown eyes listened.

“I think so.”

I imagine us bent over green bushes, pulling blueberries from their stems. Keeping them in plastic buckets, each taking one with us when we parted ways.

I would have seen it in the tender way he held them, soft and cradled in his palm, blue stained fingernails.

He would have baked them in a pie for me, and I would have kept mine in the freezer, preserving them, hoping they’d last as long as I knew we would.