My tongue tastes like a watermelon jolly rancher.
My skin smells like water because earlier I danced naked in the rain.
I’ll dust off my records and put on something old but cool, then we’ll sit by the fire on the blanket from the couch that is soft and smells like burning wood.
I can bite your lip if you want, where the wine has spilled, while you hold my wrists and lean in.
Maybe then I’ll taste like sweat and smell like marzipan and feel like a lake that ripples in the center from the drop of a stone.
The space is small. Finite. And lacks room for whole sentences.
It’s not my business to know you, where you’re coming from, or your sins, and I don’t care anyway. I only care about the palm of your hand and the tips of your fingers and your breath that trails that space behind my neck where you’ve brushed the hair away.
I’ve heard butterflies are attracted to bright colors
so they will cover me
since I am glowing
And then you can swim in the aura of the moon that is in my eyes. You’ll smell like salt from the ocean you left and I’ll brush away the sand from your feet. Depending on the light, maybe you can trace my edges with your mouth and I’ll cave in at the center and move closer to the fire.
The front door is open but the screen door is closed so time has no choice but to break down into smaller pieces and filter through. So maybe it’s tomorrow and maybe I’m 16 but you kiss me like a grown up and I don’t care if I die after your lips leave mine.
And you taste like a watermelon jolly rancher now too.
Maybe we’re young and we’ll live forever but Prince has brought this purple rain so move closer to me and I’ll whisper the words in your ear. And I don’t care if the fire goes out because you built a raft and I’ll be your mermaid and guide us to shore.
Funny how I can’t now remember my name when your arm reaches me at my middle and your hand reaches further still. I have no compass yet I know the direction of love because your body lights the way.
And now we both smell like water and taste like salt and look like lovers and feel like teenagers.
So when the moon disappears and the record stops playing and our eyes are closed all feelings are present and you offer your palm where I offer my fingers and everything that I’ve wanted follows perfectly like a plan.
And the butterflies cover us
Listen to this prose here.
Love elephant and want to go steady?
Apprentice Editor: Melissa Horton/ Editor: Catherine Monkman
Image: Courtsey of author