Breaking
That first night, I wanted to stretch
my lips across the table, draw circles
to dot its black varnished surface,
and press them into your smile,
feel your breath brush against my tongue.
That last night, you on your knees,
the feet of your palms cradling your eyes,
as the cries fell down your cheeks,
my shouts echoed in drywall corners
in sharp contrast to our pillow laughter
just a few nights before, your left breast
cushioned by my hand, as our sweat
slowly dried from our naked tired bodies,
I can still see you crying, kneeling
as I slammed the door behind me,
stalked with the dog leashed woven
between my finger joints, as I walked her
for a half mile, smoking cigarette after cigarette.
My anger friction burned your thighs,
but your lazy arrhythmic sighs
told me your heart wasn’t in it,
and, really, neither was mine.
I kept seeing your blond hair
pasted to your cheeks by tears
like drowned memories floating
at the bottom of a whiskey glass.
Nathan Tompkins is a writer living in Portland, Oregon, though North Idaho will always be his home. His work has appeared in many publications including Fickle Muses, Yellow Chair Review, and Crab Fat Magazine. He is the author of four chapbooks, the most recent of which are A Song of Chaos and Lullabies to a Whiskey Bottle.
