I Find Myself Getting Jealous Of 18th Century Poets That I Swear Have Seen The Dimples On Your Back

It was Wednesday and I gathered your tears up into a small pool and dove in fully clothed. The amount of sorries that dripped from your lips were abundant but delicious, and you’d think I would’ve drowned but instead, I quenched my thirst and kissed the remainder right back into your skin. I patiently watched you quiver as you told me I deserve better and other ridiculous phrases, when all I really deserved was to be crawling through the hot sands of the Sahara begging you for shade, away from the rays of heat from life itself.

I asked you where you found a time machine. You stared at me like I was another species. But all I meant was that I’ve read enough books, and found that even Chaucer was writing stanzas about how the curls of your hair wrap around your chest like a sleeping kitten. I find myself getting jealous of 18th century poets that I swear have seen the dimples on your back.

You worry when mascara makes a watercolored border down your cheeks but my eyes see such a different picture, because you are turning into art in front of me. Sometimes I cannot verbalize it. The words sound silly and they lazily bounce off my tongue and trip and tumble. But it’s the vulnerability you show in moments of weakness that lets me know that you are alive, and you send goosebumps down my legs when you become so real that I have to pinch myself, thinking: I’m the last one on Earth experiencing beauty in its truest form.

If you call this wearing my heart on my sleeve, I’d drench my own clothes in my affection for you. I’d make the world so sick of us that they’d be bedridden for weeks. There are feelings that don’t belong in the ground but are meant to be dug up and planted until it bears fruit that’ll survive this nuclear war of life.