Perseids

By Ava Lattimore

I left in the morning with a stain under my skin. You left in the morning to wash it all off. I sat with my legs straddling your hips. Can you feel it now? You asked me if you were my friend. I said you were my friend and I wanted to have sex with you. I don’t think I got it right. 

Is it under your skin?

Let me try again. I sat with my skin pressed against yours, but only the part where I could feel it. I said you were my friend and I am in love with you. I moved my hips back and forth and I don’t think I got it right.

I left in the morning and my fingers still smelled like you. And I can’t wash it off because then maybe it never happened, maybe it was gone from your mouth before you could taste it. I said you were beautiful, all of you, even the parts I have no name for. Before I left you in the morning, you held me close to your chest and I wanted to be all over and inside you and under your skin.

You asked me if I had daydreams about this, not this moment exactly, but something pressed up against it. I said no, and I think that got under your skin. I wanted to ask if you could feel it then, but the time wasn’t right.

I tried again to change the morning. I want you inside of me too. It’s in your hair. Your skin is salty. I want you to leave a mark. I want you to name my skin.

So we were pressed up against each other there, you put my fingers in your mouth, you tasted it, our skin sticking together, and I needed to feel it from the inside to know it had a name. In that light, under the covers, I could see all of you. You said the sun was too bright.

I left in the morning with a stain under my skin. I said it looked like a meteor shower. I left in the morning and I told you I loved you. You left in the morning and you washed it off.