It’s like hands scrubbed too hard,
And the makeup on my eyes that’s been wiped off
Too many times, now half my face stings when I cry.
It’s like walking on a freshly sprained ankle,
And a gentle hug.
It’s a sore subject,
And rug burn,
And that breath that leaves you when someone says something
That feels like a punch to the gut.
A fresh bruise on your knee,
And a bump on my head.
The way I push your face to the side so I can kiss your neck,
The tapping of my finger tips while playing Beethoven on my desk,
And the way their words whisper and dance around talking about debt.
It’s the inside of my leg where I got burned, and where you put all your weight.
It’s ripping off a bandaid to put a fresh one in its place.
The way I whisper just to see the look on your face.
It’s breathing out of sync while our fingers interlace.