Forget Your Suitcase
I learned the true meaning of the word temporary the night that we spent everywhere but our bed.
Avoiding contact with everything that had the word “mine” written across the front.
We shared nothing but body and words.
You knew everything about me but you didn’t know anything about me.
You said you knew airports so well that you hated them.
I‘m starting to think you felt the same way about me.
Maybe the kiss was too paralyzing.
The look too encompassing.
The touch too startling.
The love too genuine.
The scent too heavy.
But I like that I smell like rose water and history.
Shattercane and ferocity.
I like that I still can‘t describe you without a pen in my hand and fire in my mind.
I like that I can turn a hotel into a home.
You ran. Fast. Left the door wide open. Forgot your suitcase. Left the gas tank empty.
You used your feet instead. Finally allowed them to lead you for once.
This is all to say that I too have seen a boy, called him a mirror, and watched him shatter.
Watched him shake hands with my bare and label it beautiful.
But since you‘ve been gone I haven’t stuttered when saying my own name.
No longer ashamed of who I am.
If you say my name slowly it sounds a lot like the word brave.
If you don’t think it does then say it slower.
If it still doesn’t then try again.
Keep trying until you agree.