I just have to get this off my chest

because if I don’t

then —

but if you have mistaken our love

for a memory:

a memory that crumbles your joints and bones in the morning

a memory that you remember when moonlight glides through your indigo sheets

then—

if you have mistaken

the way your thumb rubbed against mine

the way your breath undulated waves of warmth on my cheek

then —

and if we made our brown eyes turn to wood, turn to stone, then —

I wish we lived on glass bottom boats,

so the truth finally comes out of our eyes

and thumbs and sheets —

no barriers between us : nothing but the sheets.

copyright thisgirlchristine, 2014

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