Warm Milk. {poetry}
{source}
I wake to the lull of the fan and the smell of rain coming in with the breeze
I reach for him out of habit and pull him closer
I wrap his arms around me so that his breath dances off of my shoulder
as the soft scent of lemon from my hair fills his lungs
My leg dangles from the side of the bed and I feel the cold from outside kiss my toes
I slide my feet underneath the sheets and entangle myself with him so the monsters beneath the bed will not disturb us
So that the whispers will not wake us
So that the truth will not destroy us
This love is fragile
He begins to stir and mumbles nonsense as he wakes from dreams in which I’m far away
He tells me that he dreamt that I belonged to another
He tells me that he loves me
His fingers brush my hair from my face and graze my cheek
We conjure ghosts from our pasts
And tell tales of past lovers with no moral to our stories
He stares at me as others have before
“How could someone not love you?”
“I’m not everyone’s cup of tea.”
“You’re mine. But am I yours?”
“You’re more like warm milk before bed, than tea at all.”
He smiles, then kisses my forehead before going to the kitchen
I can hear the coffee brewing
He pours me a cup in my favorite mug
Cream with two sugars
Then he tucks the covers in around me so the monsters cannot get me
So that I cannot run
This love is delicate
I can hear the shower running as the water washes away his doubts
And quiets the voice of reason
I join him to find solace of my own
He wipes the mascara from my face and kisses me like the first time
Like the last time
I feel him inside me
He holds me closer and kisses my shoulder
I feel him leave me
This love is fleeting
He steps onto the wood floor leaving footprints as he grabs a towel
He wraps me tightly so that the monsters cannot get me
So that I cannot run
We play hide and seek, both too afraid to be found
We make believe that I am the one
As his imagination runs away with him
This love is fiction
We dress ourselves in nothing but each other’s skin as we watch old movies
The clock ticks in vain, time has stopped
We both sit wondering how much longer we have left
I kiss him to make the hours pass while I trace each one of his fingers
He loves me, he loves me not
This love is patient
We forget the world and build forts beneath the sheets
We allow no one in
We wonder what is to come aloud and leave our ghosts behind us
He stares at me like no one has before
The monsters reach to pull me under
But I run to him
This love is safe
This loves makes men of boys and little girls of women
This love is quiet but ever-present
This love is born from vengeance but blooms with sincerity
This love will live or die by our own hands
And so I lay my ghosts to rest
And pour myself a glass of warm milk
I drink every last drop and lick my lips
I smile as I let out a sigh and brace for the fall
This is love
And so I stay.
***
Monica Torres is a recovering cynic and world traveler, scouring the earth for meaning, purpose, and fine wines. You could contact her via her website, Facebook or Instagram.
***
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