coming in late.
I’m barely done talking, trying to convince her why being seen here is a spectacularly bad idea, when la Sirenita kisses me as hard as the surf hitting the rocks.
She kisses me with salt still on her lips. She drinks the air from between mine like she wants every breath she’s missed while she’s been underwater.
I’ve missed her.
I’ve missed her,
and it shimmers
across my lips
and the ends of my hair
and on the tips
of my fingers.
each night I’ve watched
for her, for the filmy cloud
of her skirts underwater,
like the most delicate of fins.
I don’t want to ask her. I want to stop myself from asking her. But her kiss draws every word on my tongue out from between my lips, and I ask her why she’s been gone for so long. But I try not to sound sad about it. Just curious.
I definitely don’t tell her that every time I’ve been underwater, I’ve looked for the sheen of her tail.
I can tell by her face.
I’ve hurt her, disappearing
for so long, no warning.
I never thought she’d miss me.
I thought I knew why
we each put our hands
on each other’s bodies,
our lips on each other’s lips.
I was doing it
because she was beautiful,
and I was in love with her.
she was doing it
because I was pretty,
and she was bored.
