Maybe I was never inside of you.

We rush past and back through ourselves,
reaching for some mutual light,
some radiance that will not let
memories turn from nectar to poison.

Even if we leave,
I'll hold on to some things...

Kissing where scars made signatures on skin,
a deep story told through each one,
it doesn't matter how they came to be,
I still jealously cling to the taste.

How each one was like a faint riverbed
waiting to be filled by my lips,
charting what was once lost,
what can be found again.

Further than what flesh will ever foretell,
we almost seem to learn less the deeper we go,
detailing some vague narrative of shared history.

But maybe I was never inside of you.

Maybe we turn away from language
freighted with different promises,
different meanings wrapped
around all friends and lovers.

Even if it hurts too much to stay,
I will hold on to some things...

How I can taste all that you are,
every scar confessing a separate geography,
the enigmatic flavor of ocean salt mist,
the most ripened and sweet plucked orchard.

And I'm far from what flesh will foretell,
we almost seem undone the deeper we go,
hands and lips searching for something tactile,
a territory we can cautiously map.

Maybe I was never inside you.

Maybe love will always be
freighted with different promises.

But I'll never forget kissing
your every beautiful scar.