I just smelled your pillow. Or is it back to being my pillow already?
It’s still your side of the bed. It was my side. Sleeping next to the wall. But you told me that you liked that side of the bed. And I liked you. So it became yours.
I don’t want to lie there because it still smells like you. Like some cheesy ass R&B song. Like something Bobby Brown would say. Who you also liked.
Venus really is in retrograde. Ain’t that a bitch? I learned that from you. My moon is in Aquarius, your sign. Air signs. Plans not grounded in reality.
Summer was really great. Really great. I kept it in the back of my head, “This too shall pass.”
I wanted holiday sex. Veteran’s Day sex. Thanksgiving sex while we tasted the grease and flavors of the day on each other’s lips. Martin Luther King Day sex.
You smelled like soap, like someone who had to be clean for a living. Airy. You became the 301st thread.
The scratches on my shoulders remind me of you. I like to look at them.
You called “Letter from Birmingham Jail” poetry. You were the first person I told that I’ve never read it.
You encouraged me to write.
So I’m writing.