The last time we kissed, I touched the bare-skin swell where waist curves into hip. You bit my tongue. The baggage. Pillows and suitcases all stacked in a row. Don’t fall down.
Remember the time? We didn’t even touch. Just ran around the monkey bars singing those songs. Snatches of those songs. I wanted your fingers. Cold. It would have been.
The last time—then the bear-hug. The squirm. The slap. I haven’t got a way of explaining to you. Just—The plant on my sill is confused. Is pushing out clusters of little pink flowers. Little—are they flowers if they don’t have petals?
The German word for hip is Hüfte. The one for skin is Haut. Both are feminine. I like to say them. Three times. The last time . . .
The last time, you moved away from me like a blind person. Hands out front. Only you were walking backwards. Or was I? Or did I fall? The pillows and suitcases in a neat row. And was it soft or hard? You and the walls and your teeth and that curve . . . that curve, all stop.
song: “My Space Buggy” by Asleep at the Wheel
