I have studied the pattern of your skin where it overgrew the nail
wondering if your hands would ever close around my scars.
You brought me to you, folding my arms around
to keep everything out from between, and, still, I unwrapped.
Imagine if I’d saved all the lint I picked from your belly button,
a mason jar of blue fluff, a souvenir that I could just unscrew.
It’s amazing how long I’ll sit here,
staring at an empty sheet,
thinking there’s nothing I have to say that hasn’t been said,
then I’ll surprise even myself,
my mouth shaping words I will tell to no one,
except a man on the other end of so many things
that sometimes I wonder what it is we’re holding on to.
You are sweaty
and his side.
You cannot sleep
with his hand
where it is,
of his heart
under the muscle
of his upper arm.
so utterly simple
if only you hadn’t
opened your eyes
to his shadowed
face, a strand of
across one of his
closed in sleep.
You are thinking
of a shower
and how soft
after the burn
of this sand.
You are memorizing
of his body
and the scent
of your own,
Jenine Durland earned her BA in English: Poetry Track from the Colorado College under the study of poets Jane Hilberry, Joan Stone, and Roger Mitchell. Her work has been published in the Leviathan, the Cipher, and by the Press at Colorado College. She makes her home at 10,000 feet in the San Juan Mountains, but will soon be trading her skis in for the subway with an upcoming move to Brooklyn.