mementos

We're a little in love with lust. Not so much explosions but that endless open falling. Smacking strawberry gum on my glossed lips and hanging Polaroid after Polaroid. His brown skin pressed against her white. Such beautiful latent violence. It's not so much the language of the body but the aftermath of ache. That sweet suffusion of pink as we open our legs to the shadows. Throw lockets and Scrabble tiles down the well. Listen to the lull and hum of the river and throw our panties in the grass. There are endless equations of wanting. Your teeth pressed against my perfumed wrists, my mother crying softly into the pot roast and dragging her heels against the tile. I collect everything in jars. Condoms and buttons. How women have a need to own things, the way I treasured your come inside me like a rose pressed in a book.