A Wednesday Morning in March

When you leave, it’s 11 am on a Wednesday morning and purple wrappers from rubber condoms decorate my floor. You leave the window open from the night before, I hear you struggling with the porch door knobs that I’d warned you about, a slam from the screen and then you’re gone but you’re still here seeped into the veins of my sheets, the smell of your unwashed hair carved into my pillow.

I hate this.

Reason #832 why men shouldn’t sleep over is because suddenly my room is saturated in their presence. I wake up at 7:30 without a drop of clothing on but coated in you and I hate it, but wish you’d promise not to go. When you tell me at 9am that you’ll “get out of my hair” I beg you not to in an apathetic “I don’t have class until 1, we can sleep for a bit”. My heart thumps in triumph as we reassume positions. But then I can’t get rid of you. It’s now Sunday morning, I’ve washed the scent of you from my fingers 106 times and my room has been slicked back with incense and spring-time breezes but you are still here.

I like this. A little.

There’s a worry maybe you’re never going to be here again, that this is my only chance to bottle you and keep you on my dresser along with the other odd antiques I’ve arranged next to empty wine bottles and loose change.

I’ve made a ritual out of smelling lovers, a tip I’ve acquired from Lindsay Lohan’s “The Parent Trap” as her nose maps out the peppermint-y smell of her grandfather. It’s what I do if I can’t sleep — traveling back through journals of collarbones and hairy forearms. I want to dig my nose into your armpit. I want to smell you before you go into the shower and follow the rivers of sweat from your ears to your thighs. I’ve quarantined a space for you on my tongue and my strongest muscle will not relinquish your taste.

Your heart beat is the new rhythm in my chest and the weight of your finger tips keep a new tempo. I’m no longer myself, I see bits of you in the bathroom because, for the life of you, you can’t put the goddamn toilet seat down. You’re steeped into my coffee, I swirl you around my gums and swallow you whole.

I like this.

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