people ask me what i like most about you.
is it his eyes, his smile? does he buy you chocolate for valentines?
you must be so in love, they say.
what i like most is that your lips taste of salt.

we are nothing special, darling.
and they don't understand--
because friends with benefits always goes wrong, because casual sex doesn't last this long with one person.
but we are not friends.
the sex is anything but casual.

there is nothing to explain the world from a cloud of
white sheets and oak.
you balance above me like the sun hangs over the earth and
i am the moon, white and not-so smooth, my face a maze of
aqua eyes and invisible craters, eyelash wishes.
i like it when you kiss away my tears and let me taste them.

you have never brought me breakfast in bed and
we don't have discussions after we fuck.
there are the pink capsules in your palm and the beads of sweat
gathering in the center of my stomach. sometimes i think
that angels cluster together on the windowsill and sing to me
in spanish, but mostly i know
i'm just dreaming.

people think we are in love or that you are maybe beating me.
i hold out my arms to reveal a lack of fingertip bruises.
i undress slowly in gym class so the gossips can get
their fill of nothing. skin and bone, a scar from where
i fell off a bicycle as a child.
you are not my boyfriend or my abuser,
you are simply--

slanted wildcat eyes and
a quick tongue and skinny hips,
breath in my ear,
mouth at my neck, my breasts, yes,
mouth between my legs.
you don't call me a whore but
you have never screamed my name.
i leave bite marks on your shoulder blades.

we are not selfless people, you and i.
sometimes when i'm strewn across your lap,
the stubble on your chin scratching my stomach,
that dry taste in my mouth, you'll say
"i would marry you if i had any ambition."
i answer against your chest,
"you have plenty of ambition. darling, it is a
you lack."

you know me, my frostbitten feelings.
i don't have time for things like, oh, like
love or children or things like life.
when i'm under you on the bed i
blank my mind and think of stories instead.
then you touch my wounds just right and
i explode.

maybe one day i will desire
golden rings and tousle-haired babies
sex on wednesdays, tv on tuesdays,
winter the rest of the week.

i just know now i want summer,
frying pan hot
firecrackers behind my eyes and
your touch leaving trails of blisters
from my forehead to my hips.

you lean me on the kitchen table
and i couldn't need anything better than this.
i like the rug burns on my back,
i like the skidmarks in my driveway.

i like the way that your lips
taste of salt.