There’s a lot of truth in movement.
Your hand in my hair. Your tongue in my mouth. There’s a lot of things to say, but we touch instead. Soak them in, spill them out.
It’s true that I’m sorry never felt as good as at one a.m. when you’re inside of me. My nails rake your back, the skin comes out red. It looks like a treasure map where what’s buried must be bigger than the page.
Your heart is bigger than the page.
But I’m still digging.