“I’m not about big spaces,” said she grimly, mouth
pursed, a little tangy around the edges. “I’m all about the small ones. Corners,
the tiny gaps between the stools around the table. I’d slip into that. I’m content
with the tiny. I want places
that are unoccupied.
You’d have me sit on a chair, lay on a bed, live in a house; big things
but no, thanks.
I’d rather cut myself into pieces and tuck my parts in apertures; when the time comes
that you found a new owner, I will dwell in the gaps unnamed, holes and cavities where
memories of me would forever float, haunting you
in your dreams, kissing you
in the dark, sloppily,
in a fleeting moment of impulse where the warmth
of our skin becomes alive,
temporarily. I don’t want impermanence. I intend to live
and stay, when my body is not yours to touch,
to tinker with your fingers, to linger
like the scent of malt around your mouth, where you would curse
then bless my name in your solitude, bearing a black hole in your chest
after I took up all the room.”