Yet More Poetry
Remorse
I loved you with my too small hands fisted in your hair, thick and falling onto my shoulders. I loved you with my lips, too thin and small to kiss you properly, to surround a perfect, dusky nipple, too silent to sing your praises.
I loved you with a child’s selfish love too small to encompass you. Small fingers ever tracing a scratchy black hem of lace, skirting a shape of something too bold.
I loved you large on nostalgia, patchouli incense, clove cigarettes and the smell of your dogs. Your terrible breath, coffee and mint and hunger.
I loved your large eyes, open with mania or feigned enthusiasm. Closed, your long lashes, a single mole beneath your eye. A nerve twitching, your nose scrunching, a hand scratching.
I loved the color your skin wanted to be and the dog-shit brown of your eyes and your strange, yodeling voice.
Goddammit, I loved you.
I loved you with my too small hands fisted in your hair, thick and falling onto my shoulders. I loved you with my lips, too thin and small to kiss you properly, to surround a perfect, dusky nipple, too silent to sing your praises.
I loved you with a child’s selfish love too small to encompass you. Small fingers ever tracing a scratchy black hem of lace, skirting a shape of something too bold.
I loved you large on nostalgia, patchouli incense, clove cigarettes and the smell of your dogs. Your terrible breath, coffee and mint and hunger.
I loved your large eyes, open with mania or feigned enthusiasm. Closed, your long lashes, a single mole beneath your eye. A nerve twitching, your nose scrunching, a hand scratching.
I loved the color your skin wanted to be and the dog-shit brown of your eyes and your strange, yodeling voice.
Goddammit, I loved you.