Maybe, you’re not even falling in love. Perhaps, you’re at the ridiculous precipice of love. Your toes curl over the cliff hang, throat seizing with each unsteady peek over the edge. You feel the grooves with your big toes, curious about its past. You must know, you innocent victim, your inevitable end.
I think about how real the shape of your chin is, or the smell of your forearm that makes me consider the possibility that our bodies wanted each other before our heads even had the chance to concoct it. Every person absorbing these words knows you. I tell them.
I talk for pages about the squint at the edge of your eye, and how it feels like the ragged threshold of the universe. I moan about the size of your palm, and how you find me, every so often, underneath it. I climb into your mouth exploring the new, soft part of your skin from an angle never before cast into a word docx. I push pressure from inside your body, and we both find something new.
I try each aching letter to formulate a lover.
Those who fall in love with writers must know that their secrets leek. We mask it; satire is helpful. I pile metaphors atop one another until everything is so absurd that it reminds me of your nose pressed against my forehead when you breathe me in.
Because that feeling is absurd, because you are a quilt of impossibilities, and because you locked me inside of you for so long the ground begins to steady.
What do you think? How about your friends? Ex-lovers? When they hear me find the impenetrable pieces of your soul flaking away at the flesh, do they still ask you how hot it is outside?