tunnels & collar bones

i want to run through every red light to get to you faster
the butterflies caged in my chest break free
when i recognize your silhouette across the dark parking lot
i want to live with my face buried in the space between your collar bones
your smile sets my gut at ease
like the ease you have with kissing the top of my forehead
with a warm, “hey babe”
& i never knew how much i craved
the velvety softness of those two words
until you say it

casually.
like how you casually play off the incredibly thoughtful things you do for me,
like loading the Harry Potter audiobooks to a playlist for me,
or leaving me “thinking of you” videos in the morning.
i want to extend each moment,
each second,
because time apart feels like that game i used to play with my brothers,
holding my breath at the entrance of a tunnel
only allowing myself to exhale once you reach the other side–

only, it’s not a game now.
& i’ve only just caught my breath with you
& don’t want to hold it a second more.
& yet.. i want to let you leave.
i want you to go conquer the world,
and be the person you tell all about it
at the end of the day.

if you didn’t ask me, “how was your circle group meeting?”
i’m quite sure
that all of this
would’ve come tumbling out

in one

breath.

grey

i dont live in moderation
hell i dont eat in moderation.
i dont just have cake & eat it too
i steal bites out of cupcakes in one hand,
& potato chips in another.
because i cant decide between salty or sweet
& life is just better being able to indulge in both tastebud sensations

being around you
im learning
to take smaller bites
& savor the sweetness
before reaching for a second helping

i dont live in the grey
but with you
im learning
that there are so many distinct variations
that get you from black to white

i dont know restraint
but im learning to not push
to not plunge
because one of us will eventually break
& when that happens
there will be no more mystery in grey corners
& allure of forbidden chocolate
we’ll have crossed the line
& there will only be black, white,
& sticky guilty fingers left.

63360

we take an inch
& my head spins for miles
the playful arm lock to keep me laying in bed
the running your fingertips up and down the curve of my hips
you want miles,
[at least i think you do]
but we only take an inch.
bite-size
miniature
itty-bitty pieces
so that the guilt is tolerable.
[at least for me]
but my head is running marathons
giant strides
with a steady endurance
to places that make me question every quip
every smart ass remark
every quick “night” without the grand gesture
every day that creeps by for me to check off to know if asking if you miss me is appropriate

my appetite is satiated with the inch
but my head never is.