Because I Can't Stop Thinking About Kissing You

By Anamika Kumari

The problem with me is that everything has to be a mouthful,

the bed soaked in knocked over wine, making skin stick,

greasy knuckles and all — taking turns on Spotify

curious about how the other begins, and how they fuck,

making a habit and taken by surprise every time —

I’ll confess — I have wanted you more than I did before —

I am sick with it, glued to my bed with my

stomach sucked in — face hollowed out with pleasure.

I don't trust it.

I’ll confess — you hurt at my sweetest spot,

drawn — like water draws water.

A slow crash. Soundless— without any edges,

there is nothing tender about it—

everything is tender about it.

It is to make room for lingering,

like when you ask if I missed you

after months on end, and I say yes with a full stop,

both knowing that neither of us was counting on it, really,

how can I tell you now?

that I look at you with my eyes closed —

spilling in and out of light, your eyes heavy with

a prochronic hunger that you left this city to tend to,

like many others.

No need to speak — let the stale trajectory of time

that led you here pass over,

I'll confess — if we get more than this,

I am hoping to be braver,

as in, to be honest and finally tell you

how very beautiful you are,

and if the third time really is a charm,

I'll admit my punishment too.

By Anamika Kumari