she liked how her words
would stumble into one another,
fill in the space between her thighs,
crawl into the knots in her spine,
push out all the dirtynastywrong thoughts
she couldn't pretend to forget. he would never
ask her why and she would never answer with
a yes; his hands like ghosts over her bones
in the dark, trying to find the part
she lost somewhere with the inches around
her waist, that soft dip in her collarbone, the way
her tongue poked between her teeth when she
smiled, (ashamed?) because they both knew he
wouldn't find anything at all.

(he only called her beautiful 379 days ago, before,
but now it was after, and who the hell was
counting, anyway?)