Cross posted from Arrows of Anteros.
I was sitting on a bench on the high street, more thinking than looking, when you saw me and slowed your steps.
Later you stood by the window while I reclined on the sofa, neither of us speaking because we had too much to say.
And that night, with you at my back and your arm thrown negligently around my torso, you whispered, “Roll over,” and I asked, “Why?” but did it anyway so you could close the distance between us and feel whole. My chest broke open then, and the air felt cold inside me; you touched my exposed heart and oh! It hurt, that unnatural contact. But my heart still beats, even with your fingerprints on it.
Right now I’m burning a candle called “Riding Mower.” The guy at the candle shop seemed surprised when I bought it. “You like this one?” he asked. And I do. It reminds me of my childhood, when my dad used to cut the grass on Saturday mornings and the smell of it would fill the air. The rest of the day, when my friends and I would play outside, bits of wayward grass would stick to our skin and clothes, would find ways into our hair. We’d be barefoot and the dewey wet would never bother us as it came through our toes and seeped through our shorts; it would burn off as the day wore on into Southern heat. The grass would stiffen then, even prickle like stubble. But Dad was always careful not to cut it too short so that it could retain its moisture and stay green instead of drying out. And by evening, as the fireflies winked on along with the porchlights, the grass would begin nodding off under the weight of dew once more.