poetry

Warm Milk. {poetry}

I wake to the lull of the fan and the smell of rain coming in with the breeze

I reach for him out of habit and pull him closer

I wrap his arms around me so that his breath dances off of my shoulder

as the soft scent of lemon from my hair fills his lungs

 

My leg dangles from the side of the bed and I feel the cold from outside kiss my toes

I slide my feet underneath the sheets and entangle myself with him so the monsters beneath the bed will not disturb us

So that the whispers will not wake us

So that the truth will not destroy us

This love is fragile

 

He begins to stir and mumbles nonsense as he wakes from dreams in which I’m far away

He tells me that he dreamt that I belonged to another

He tells me that he loves me

His fingers brush my hair from my face and graze my cheek

We conjure ghosts from our pasts

And tell tales of past lovers with no moral to our stories

He stares at me as others have before

“How could someone not love you?”

“I’m not everyone’s cup of tea.”

“You’re mine. But am I yours?”

“You’re more like warm milk before bed, than tea at all.”

He smiles, then kisses my forehead before going to the kitchen

I can hear the coffee brewing

He pours me a cup in my favorite mug

Cream with two sugars

Then he tucks the covers in around me so the monsters cannot get me

So that I cannot run

This love is delicate

 

I can hear the shower running as the water washes away his doubts

And quiets the voice of reason

I join him to find solace of my own

He wipes the mascara from my face and kisses me like the first time

Like the last time

I feel him inside me

He holds me closer and kisses my shoulder

I feel him leave me

This love is fleeting

 

He steps onto the wood floor leaving footprints as he grabs a towel

He wraps me tightly so that the monsters cannot get me

So that I cannot run

We play hide and seek, both too afraid to be found

We make believe that I am the one

As his imagination runs away with him

This love is fiction

 

We dress ourselves in nothing but each other’s skin as we watch old movies

The clock ticks in vain, time has stopped

We both sit wondering how much longer we have left

I kiss him to make the hours pass while I trace each one of his fingers

He loves me, he loves me not

This love is patient

 

We forget the world and build forts beneath the sheets

We allow no one in

We wonder what is to come aloud and leave our ghosts behind us

He stares at me like no one has before

The monsters reach to pull me under

But I run to him

This love is safe

 

This loves makes men of boys and little girls of women

This love is quiet but ever-present

This love is born from vengeance but blooms with sincerity

This love will live or die by our own hands

 

And so I lay my ghosts to rest

And pour myself a glass of warm milk

I drink every last drop and lick my lips

I smile as I let out a sigh and brace for the fall

This is love

And so I stay.

***

MonicaTorresMonica Torres is a recovering cynic and world traveler, scouring the earth for meaning, purpose, and fine wines. You could contact her via her website, Facebook or Instagram.

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