you asked me for a hug
"just a goodbye hug," you said,
and i had to refuse
because i knew that if i let you wrap your arms around me
i wouldn't want you to let go.
but later i gave in to my fears,
we stood outside in civil twilight
underneath a yellow streetlamp
and you asked again,
a gentleman as always,
and i wrapped my arms around your neck
like i did a thousand times before.
and i closed my eyes
and tightened my grip
as you kissed my neck
and whispered, "i don't want to lose you..."
i felt your tears on my shoulder,
you felt mine on yours
and we didn't let go
until i was too afraid that our embrace
meant goodbye.
i
and those three words
that followed his goodbye
repeated so hesitantly from my lips -
a mouse in a trap,
admitting defeat at the metal bar
pressing down on its back
that snapped its spine in two.
and as my finger hovered over the red button
that would sever me from him currently
i heard it again:
three syllables
three words
three months we've known each other's kiss.
and part of me hated saying it back -
that i knew that he was a liar
but i didn't know what he lied about
or whether i could love him anymore;
so i said
"goodnight,"
and hung up the phone.
clearly i've developed a fascination with cigarettes
and hand-holding and cheek-kisses,
something about thinking about him on starry nights,
when i can draw lines connecting his initials to mine
because he was a cancer and i was a cancer,
and my horoscope told me to keep him close to my heart
so he could peel back my skin and my ribs and my lungs
to steal my words right from my chest
he smelled like Newports and hours-old cologne,
but sometimes it was his smoke mingled with a fresh peppermint
that drew me to his lips and made me wonder
if i could get addicted to the taste of his nicotine
he made me want him next to me, to lay my hand on hi