My dear, when you wake next to me

your words leave you like flower petals.

You’d be embarrassed if you knew.

So soft. So feminine.

 

Your words leave you like flower petals

and fall onto my bare chest.

So soft. So feminine.

Too soft and too feminine, I know, for 2pm.

 

You curl into me, your forehead on my bare chest,

and kiss the space between my breasts.

I lie there, hoping I am soft and feminine enough,

and try not to breathe too much.

 

I keep the space between my breasts hollow inside

so I have somewhere to cram the words I don’t say to you.

If I breathe too much,

I inhale the I-love-yous that fall out of you in your sleep.

 

The words I don’t say to you

are hidden in my ribcage,

your I-love-yous and so much more—

everything I’m saying when I breathe between sentences.

 

Sometimes I feel like I am hidden in my ribcage

once I leave your bed in the morning

and begin to swallow the sentences I was keeping under my tongue,

sentences, confessions, problems I’m not supposed to make in daytime.

 

Once I leave your bed in the morning

I wait until tomorrow for more of your flower petals,

sentences, confessions, problems, you’re not supposed to make in daytime.

Oh, my dear. The things you say when you wake next to me.