tell me what devotion tastes like? i see it in the way you hold the door, feel it in the way you slide your brown leather jacket around my shoulders, hear it in the way you whisper goosebumps, as if it’s a completely appropriate explanation for your skin against mine.
some days, i am sure that you love me. these are the days that the butterflies in my stomach are gentle with my insides. these are the days i do not have to rely on vodka or cigarettes or matches against my wrist to keep the bad thoughts (the kind of shit nightmares are made of, you whisper) away.
last tuesday, you kissed my cheek on the subway. an elderly lady wearing a pretty knit scarf smiled and i blushed but you didn’t notice. you never notice. all you ever seem to do is stare stare stare until my bones are melting and my face is positively on fire.
i think that’s what you like; cornering me. grinding me down into the kind of powder that can be rolled and burned between thin slips of paper on friday nights, sunday afternoons. and honestly, the joke is on you because i would die in any corner you pushed me in—smile as i waste away and watch you grin at me, admire the scar beneath your right eye and wait for you to kiss me.
i love you, see. and i hope to the universe i’m not being too callous with my feelings, or yours (heaven forbid, yours). but sometimes you kiss the corners of my mouth and tell me i’m the kind of girl you need a map for. sometimes you trace the burn marks on my wrists and insist that they’re not scars, they’re stars and that you’re sure you see the big dipper in there, somewhere. and i just love you so fucking much i can’t think straight.
so please, show me what devotion tastes like. i’ll be the stars to your universe and you’ll kiss me in every place you’re not supposed to until i’m no longer the only one on fire.
