atoms.

When we kissed I could no longer feel your lips; our tongues didn’t try. I couldn’t remember why I was there. What made me stay? Did we share all our thoughts and now we didn’t speak because we feared we’d sound repetitious? Seven times during one week, you entered me and I could tell we both knew you were feeling my inside, how warm I am there, while I was only experiencing your outer shell, your unbearable weight. Four nights in a row, I watched the sky become ruby at four. And always wondered whether you liked it better blue. I can’t imagine you could.

“If you could change anything about me—“
What?
“What would it be?”
Your eyes. I like green eyes.
“That’s terrible, Kid”
Teaches you not to ask superficial questions.
“But really, my eyes, you don’t like them?”
What about me?
“I love yours.”
But what would you change?
“How you never became a photographer.”
I said that wouldn’t last.
“Kid, will you remember me when you’re gone?”
I’m not leaving.
“That’s what they all say. You already are going.”
Who is they?
“All of us.”