Anamika Kumari

Because I can’t stop thinking about kissing you

The problem with me is that everything has to be a mouthful,
the bed soaked in knocked over wine, making skin stick,
greasy knuckles and all — taking turns on Spotify
curious about how the other begins, and how they fuck,
making a habit and taken by surprise every time —
I’ll confess — I have wanted you more than I did before —
I am sick with it, glued to my bed with my
stomach sucked in — face hollowed out with pleasure.
I don’t trust it.
I’ll confess — you hurt at my sweetest spot,
drawn — like water draws water.
A slow crash. Soundless— without any edges,
there is nothing tender about it—
everything is tender about it.
It is to make room for lingering,
like when you ask if I missed you
after months on end, and I say yes with a full stop,
both knowing that neither of us was counting on it, really,
how can I tell you now?
that I look at you with my eyes closed —
spilling in and out of light, your eyes heavy with
a prochronic hunger that you left this city to tend to,
like many others.
No need to speak — let the stale trajectory of time
that led you here pass over,
I’ll confess — if we get more than this,
I am hoping to be braver,
as in, to be honest and finally tell you
how very beautiful you are,
and if the third time really is a charm,
I’ll admit my punishment too.