my wounds are covered by your perfume. exactly how i like it, so the skin can’t breath. i wear your scent, beads around my neck, weighing me down into the bed. i stumble home with a salty mouth, thinking how gentle your hands were on my hair, my arm, my back. on every spot now dusty and singed with cigarette smoke. i meet a girl who won’t remember me and think i could kiss her. but i know when i go home it’ll still be your hair inside my pillow, so i sit outside the party and shake. you leave like a tradition, like a ritual. like the summer i beg to stay every year.
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