He’s the purest form of love. The kind of love that you can only dream of. When you’re best friends, yet also lovers and nothing is expected from either of you. He’s like a sunrise – he always brightens up the dark. Every fear, every insecurity you have, he finds beauty in it and it makes you fall in love with him even more. You look at him knowing that he’s not going anywhere, no matter how often you create scenarios in your head that he will. When he says he loves you, you know that he means it, cause he’d never tell you a lie or say something he doesn’t mean. He’s honest and kind; he makes sure you always know your worth. There is not a single shallow bone in his body. Everything is taken into consideration; all of your feelings and words and doubts, he considers it all. And he knows you better than you think you know yourself – he knows you better than most people, actually. He’s my person and I’m his.
She sleeps all day. Dreams of you in both worlds. Tills the blood, in and out of uterus. Wakes up smelling of zinc, grief sedated by orgasm, orgasm heightened by grief. God was in the room when the man said to the woman, “I love you so much. Wrap your legs around me. Pull me in, pull me in, pull me in.” Sometimes when he’d have her nipple in his mouth, she’d whisper, “Oh, my God.” That, too, is a form of worship.
Her hips grind, pestle and mortar, cinnamon and cloves. Whenever he pulls out … loss. Dear moon, we blame you for floods … for the flush of blood … for men who are also wolves. We blame for the night for the dark, for the ghosts.