Sometimes | Poems that Suck

We were toxic as fuck,

and there are times I wonder

if our connection was more a sickness

of spirit, rather than something cosmic —

But sometimes,

when the moon looks just right,

and the night air is a certain humidity,

I miss you —

The scathe of your fingers nails on my scalp,

sharp enough for me to wince beneath them,

the low rumble of your voice, which always caused

me to lean into your mouth,

the sound of your laugh, which is etched inside my brain,

the curve of your fingers, and the impossible largeness of your hands,

the deep, earthy smell of you that always made me feel like I was at home,

and the feeling of when our heads touched – like it was always us, had always

been us, and would always be us.

Even if it was a sickness,

at least it was shared.