Here's where things got hazy:
you talked about pulling the stars closer
because the bigger they got, the less insignificant you felt.
I presumed it was because I called you mine.
Bottle caps and paper punchers
were the things we made love on when you decided
to live life more dangerously.
Indentions were made on my skin and not by
your touch, but by distractions - carefully planted, unlike
the way you used to kiss me. Your lips
lost instinct, but still tasted as they always had; soft
and pure, in the way no one else before me understood.
Maybe simplicity pulled you from me.
Or maybe you felt like I was too easy,
too predictable, and my endless sunday morning-coffee
overdosing lifestyle didn't feed your fingers the words
you'd slam into the typewriter. Maybe you really needed me
to anger you into spiraling verses,
until you realized that we spilled the words on the floor
and never bothered to pick them back up.
I feel like I've finally learned you, or possibly
unlearned what I'd taught myself to believe. Appeasement
is a diluted thing the way we dole it out by habit, and not
by want. I will not anger you to give you passion; you cannot
sit at my kitchen table without resenting my efforts.
The stars are not yours to pull down, and neither am I.