When we are in bed together; that is the only time you are heavy.
I cannot handle everything you want to fit inside me.
After we are done the space under my skin under my belly button hurts a little for the rest of the day. I think “maybe no one should ever let things inside them, no matter how good it feels to be full”
If I press my finger into my belly button, hard, I feel it at the base of my cervix. A thread pulls from point A to B. Like the jolt of foot –extending, laughing - when you hit your knee. I like my belly button because of the scar that looks like a nail clipping.
The body is proof that cause and effect is still a rule and a guarantee against chaos theory. That the universe will keep me planted to its fate. That my lungs won’t explode, even though I feel pressure and sadness filling them up.
When I get serious and sometimes cry,
you either laugh, light and nervous, or become very solemn and look away as if I am hurting you.
I wish I could cry less like someone in a new wave movie,
Less composed and less decorative.
You are the only one who has not told me: “you look even more beautiful when you’re sad.”
The only one who disregards the script.