My Words: Knell
You press your face to mine—or mine to yours?—and I inhale deep, filling my lungs with the airborne taste of a bold red and a flavor that's all your own. I drink it in like a life force, convinced if I breathe heavily enough my body will become made of yours and you will become the force inside it, as much as you are the force inside my mind at this moment, the driving force urging me to make every move the way I know you want me to.
Your teeth close around my lips and I'm grateful for the excuse, the excuse to keep quiet and stop myself from spilling every pretty and petty thing I know better than to tell you. Your grip on me tightens and quickens the pace of my pulse and it's only a minute more before I'll need to be reminded to breathe—in, out. Inhale, exhale. Breathe you in, sigh you out.
We don't love like we used to. Not each other, and no one else, not for all the life we've lived in our short time and not for all the ways we know we shouldn't, couldn't, never would. The literal and metaphorical spaces between us could fill a thousand galaxies, and I won't dare be the one who attempts to bridge such gaps.
But still, I like to sleep with the clothes you shed from your body wrapped around mine, because even though the scent of your skin will wash away in the minutes after I wake, I selfishly hope the hours spent inside them will absorb your essence into my flesh, and I will carry some chemical version of you around with me long after your plane soars out of view.