PIEL DE MIEL

en mi almohada

the silk of our sheets is rubbing against our skin. and our skin is clinging together in the warm haze of 3 in the afternoon. i can't tell if they're sticky because your skin is drenched in ichor, or if it's just the residue of all your broken promises. i slip my hand under your shirt and trail my itching fingertips over the way i've carved my name into your back, and you sigh.

but i can't really think of anything right now. it's times like these when i question how true my love is, and i wonder if you do the same. your eyelids are hanging over your honeycomb eyes, and you're gazing at me and i can see the way your hunger is dripping from them, thick honey rolling down your cheeks. your curls fan out over the pillowcase and i don't know if my love is real anymore. and i know our neighbors might disagree, because the declarations of our love might've had them contemplating their own.

but i can't seem to return the way you look at me like you could just drown in me. my knuckles are sore from trying to hold onto a fantasy too tightly, and i don't think they can hold yours anymore. my tongue is bitten raw from holding back all of the things i know you don't wanna hear me say. my chest swells because i've been holding onto my breath for too long, but i can't let you see it.

i just smile at you. i can't do anything else, because then your fantasy will be ruined. and god knows that's not what i wanna do.