Lessons

After crying,

you lay your head against my neck

so I can feel you breathing,

so I can hear oxygen in my eardrums,

you drown out the nightmares.

There is never silence now,

you always whisper things in sleep that are not meant for me.

I have bruises on my ribs from

I have weak fingers from

I have open cuts from

This is not a battlefield.

You place your hands on my clavicle,

my legs quiver as a childs would

and my eyes are tight, closed,

and I clasp to, fumble a key in my fingers

and I wonder what it would be like to cook your meals or iron your shirts

and I wonder if i'd choose that over this

and I wish that I could

and I wish that I would

but for some reason I know I would not.

I know i'd choose here,

moments of learning from your bones and the way

they rotate in rhythm.

This is not the way it is supposed to be,

(immutably covered in your cologne as you leave me tripping over the seams of my own clothes)

and I am contemplating exactly how permanent your marks on my skin may be.