A small tear appears in my jeans where my thighs rub together

but I still slip them on, button up

cause once you slid your hands over them,

dug your thumb into the small of my back.

Every touch is woven into their threads, every 

finger lingers.

God damn.

How have you been?

I want to ask but instead I stare at a picture on Instagram,

jam my fist into my mouth to 

keep myself from typing out “I might have

loved you once but now I just remember it.”

Maybe you’d say back, “oh don’t kid yourself.

No love looks like running a hand 

over your ass for two minutes” 

Probably, you’re right. But haven’t you 

questioned what it would’ve been like?

Replanting the redwood evening over and over is my 

specialty. I’ve run it so many 

times that now the smoke and fog are clogging my pores. 

Unreal as it is, I still know what it’s like to press my hands to your chest.

Volcanic as it is, I still dream you 

willing and me, unhinged. Every 

xeroxed frame is a little different.

Yoked into this story is the

zipper and how you never got around to unzipping it. 

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