I have this thing about laying on floors. It feels like being a kid. It feels safe. I used to lay on my floor under the piano and play with the pedals. I used to lay on the floor of my first apartment for hours staring at stucco and thinking. I used to lay on the floor after school and make my mom step over me to put things away. I used to lay on his kitchen floor next to the electric heater while he made stir fry or scrambled eggs.
After awhile he stopped asking questions. He understood when I couldn't move or speak.
I'm curled in a ball at his feet. He is writing a book. I'm crying.
I love the way he asks me questions
"Are you having a breakdown sweetie?", He asks it the same way he would ask you to pass the salt.
"Do you want me to stop writing for a bit?"-I want him to hold onto me so I stop sinking.
He doesn't make me explain myself.
He holds my face in his hands and wipes my tears away with his thumbs.
I'm crying about the way his neck tastes when I kiss it. And how much I hate him and I love him.
I'm crying about sharing cigarettes and how he serves food for me. It feels safe.
I wanted him to lay on the floor with me so many times. And he never did.
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