Type Writer Series #483

I want to be the book that sleeps beside your bed,
the one you reach for when you cannot find the backs of your eyes
and paint with your own ink to highlight the sentences that highlighted something inside you.
The bent pages and water damaged spine
and the brown ring where your coffee mug couldn’t help but sit
when the skin of your fingers couldn’t handle the heat any longer.
Let me be the tan-lines you don’t know you have,
from where the sun reached in for a kiss
but found fabric or metal or shade instead.
The halo of lighter skin that lives under your ring
or the lines below your toes that trace the days you wore flip flops instead.
Would you love me more if I was your favourite dress?
The one that came out ons special occasions
and made your lips do that little smirk during your last glance
for the last time in your last mirror on your way out the door.
the silent nod of approval that all things are in the right place
and tonight, yes tonight, you feel beautiful.
The one that drops jaws and raises eyebrows and forces hearts to speed up
when slowing down for the night was all they had on their agenda.
I had a dream i was rainfall,
but the kind that followed you around
and only fell in your hair.
The little cloud that carried me was a magnet
to the metal in your blood and sticks to you
through the comic strip course of your afternoon.
The kind that rains from under your umbrella
as if your umbrella alone created it;
Let me be that rain as you
splash and jump and play inside it,
the feeling of it soaking your socks
and that gorgeous realisation that wet socks should drive you crazy
but just cannot today,
just will not if it’s me that’s the water
and your socks are drinking me like they are dying of thirst.
I want to be the conversation that’s held entirely without words
but instead with the ballet of your lips on my lips.
The slight pauses and the long drawn out sighs.
The words that translate themselves as we pull our mouths apart for a moment
just to memorise the exact smell and taste
and tactile imprints that we were left with.

-Tyle Knott Gregson