I am not a writer.

I cup you in my hands,
place an ear against the skin of your back.
Beat after beat of pitch perfect heart sounds, 
somewhere in between I remember who I used to be,
and how we arrived here.
We lie with lies in your bed,
and with the hours.
Within them I am convinced this is enough,
until I feel you waste part after part,
the freckles on my chest,
the laugh in my belly,
the stories that make me breathe.
I crawl from your bed,
press my feet against the cold,
I wash your salt water taste from my tongue to forget you.
You must know this,
you were a sometimes, a stranger.
You are now made of words: delicate, ferocious, unkind.
You have become the turn of a key,
the sound of driving away.