I should already know
what will haunt me the most.

The tangle of hands 
clenching, scrunching sheets, 
lips shaking upon my neck 
before teeth part skin.

It's the silence later, 
an uneasy afterglow 
that used to hold us
so safe and still.

Smoke curling towards the ceiling 
while fingers play with cinders, 
the snapshot of familiar eyes 
learning what we were beneath.

I'll never tell you about it, 
never let the words touch glass,
never let them touch paper 
or tap along glowing keys, 
they're just fumes and wisps, 
folded in one season but cracking 
into every month that follows.

I should already know 
what will be carved in me the most.

The skin so unlike what I've loved,
gliding its own trails and wants,
its own inescapable release
before pulling me inside.

It's the explosion during
a name I've kept to myself,
it glows in each step 
through this dark house, 
silenced only by the engine 
driving me so far away.

I'll never tell anyone the rest, 
never let the words touch anyone
or become the familiar fumes and wisps 
you will feel in my lips, in my eyes,
the snapshots of what I can
really be underneath you.