Release Me

Don’t tell her about me.

Release me.

When you’re laying in bed at night, skin against skin, sheets curled in the corner and clothes on the floor,

like we once did all those nights before, 

I hope you say my name between kisses,

and she pulls away,

gives you a look so foreign,

and you see my face.

I hope you trace patterns on her skin,

the same you did atop mine,

and roll onto your side, unable to continue on with the motion,

because you remember the childlike teasing and flinching, only to end in welcomed touches and chills.

I hope you straddle her at night, and hesitate to touch her,

because you miss my innocence 

and grimace at her eager willingness.

I hope she meets your parents

and they give her a dull smile and you a confused wince

because she’s not the girl they remember walking through their door.

I hope she questions why you said my name, and leaves you in the middle of the night.

Left staring at a plastered ceiling,

with nothing but visions of my eyes staring back into yours.

I hope you see me in everything you do.