My mother says your name and the word rolls off her tongue like water-easy, natural, gliding through breaks and over stones - as she mentions you casually over dinner; as if you are a common conversational topic.
I don't blush. My face does not flush a bright red. My cheeks do not burn a temperature that fires envy. My hands do not shake like an earthquake rearranging the level of gravity that grounds me to reality. My heart beats in steady time like a clock running on batteries- uncertain but unconcerned about when it shall stop.
I think back to the times your name had me biting back a smile in class. Had me searching like a lost sailor at sea for the land that was your face. Had my hands reaching unsteadily for your fingertips. Had my heart running a marathon in my chest that she'd never win. A time that I would've blushed.
I stroke my caramel colored cheeks with my pointer finger and feel no radiating heat to signal my skin has been tainted pink. I have not blushed.
~Do I no longer love you?
YOU ARE READING
Poems
Poetry"I know that sometimes for people, I feel like too much; But let me kiss away the phantom pain that the scars remind you of, Let me kiss the burns on your hands, From when you touched the burning fire within my soul. Let me show you that yes, I am...
