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| I had a talent for it once. But with you, I am living only in translation from my old life to a new one. Miss Meakin the poet, paraphrased. If I'd really meant those harsh and needing breaths, the scent of this would not be ginger, gingerly. Ginger, milk, my hair, needing taking care of. TLC. You kiss the cookies of my freckles, sweet ginger crumbs of me. Your mouth opens, groaning on each speck, pronouncing it, each a word. Slowly. This afternoon, you told a story. But plot what plot? PWP. You sank your head to me. Your silent mouth tried sighing skies and lands, but war stories fell upon my satin skin. There’s nothing telling us, or touching me. |
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| by Chloe Meakin |