i think of you while peeling onions on a Tuesday afternoon.
the bronze layer falls: the dress that fell
to my knees, the night i became yours.
it is cold to the touch, the bulb, an aorta.
the knife slips against the edge of my palm and
i pierce the neck of the onion and burst each
capillary with watery delight.
you made me lunch once, shaped the
tomatoes into half-smirks
cut thick slabs of bread the color of my complexion.
your mouth became my swimming pool
all blackboard dust and bed sheets
all empty baggage and open shells
washed to shore and left behind.
i think of you more than i should,
of the space between ur lips,
the gap between your
neck and collarbone
the margins i filled with notes
from the book you bought me,
the blanks in the words you left unsaid,
fine print – the language we spoke.
i’ve never liked space but you like it
and i like you, even when i shouldn’t.
and even when hours have passed and
i have rinsed and scrubbed,
my hands still smell of onions
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