You tuck your hand
into the faded tear of my jeans,
high on my upper thigh,
where ragged tendrils of blue
tinged cotton escape.
Your fingers feel warm there, thumbing
over the soft white flesh that swells
between stretch marks and stubble —
the razor missed a patch
and left behind a thin red line.
You do not pull away.
Instead, you stoop to kiss my bare skin and I am reminded of the little things about you that I find lovely:
⁃ your stubborn insistence that vanilla ice cream is the world’s most underrated flavor
⁃ how your favorite food has been popcorn since you were 5
When you rise again to my level,
I lick the gap between your teeth
and cup your jaw in my palm.
The mole by your dimple twitches.
I wonder if it’s always been there.
That night, I fall asleep to the cool glow
of my phone screen,
nestled in the crevice of my pillow.
Your voice speaks softly on the other line.
As I miss yous echo between us
like the first notes of my favorite song;
I realize I can’t fathom ever falling
out of love.
The Bucketlister 