I don’t want your birth control, or to hear that pink is a masculine colour. No more smashed eggshell pieces of truth. I want the whole body before it has been rewritten. Before your heels are plastered with sticking rubber. Flap flap flap across your bedroom floor, across the burnt orange sunlight mixing with the wood.
You said that the scar along my thigh looks like stars. There are nebulas in skin. And when we run our fingers over new body parts, we make constellations. Astronomers that stay in bed all day in a room with more windows than furniture.
Nobody talks about the cracks in the pavement of life. They are doorways to momentous universes. I slipped into a trap like that once (when the months paused to stretch a gap between October and November) and landed next to you.
You had ice chip eyes and permanent marker lips. Clothes that always looked wet from having journeyed into the Hyacinth garden. We linked arms for an instant. We dug fishhooks into each other’s minds. I will never see you again, but I can always feel a tug on the line.
I want to spend eternity in the narrow rose-lined passages that bloom between seconds. I know I will find you there — inside a black hole tear in the pink fabric that holds together all yesterdays and tomorrows.