the line where you end and i begin is blurring. are these your memories or mine? is that your left index finger tickling my palm, or is it my own? i've never let anyone this far in before. maybe i've tried, but they haven't delved into me like you have. you're hungry for my soul, and i'm feeding it to you with my hands, so as not to contaminate it with my dirty eating utensils. and after every sitting, when you've had your share and are licking the last secrets from my fingertips, all i can do is cry. i don't know whether i'm crying from the burden being lifted or from fear that my inner belongings will somehow escape from your mouth, drip from your chin, and fall back onto me. keep your lips shut tightly, swallow hard. i would kiss you, but i'm afraid that i'll pick up my secrets on your tongue and swallow them, leaving them lonely and once again untold. was that your laugh or mine? are you gasping for my breath again? you've never felt this either, but somehow you manage to keep more refined than i do. you keep your secrets in a beautiful teapot, pouring them into little teacups that steam with shame and confusion. i sip carefully but quickly, drinking three cups to your one as we sit and stare at each other with bloodshot eyes over your kitchen table and the Times crossword. i want more of your soul tea inside of me than you do, if only to lift your burden of late night shakes and tears.
"6 across: bubbles."
"okay. another word for 'longing' four letters."
"i have no idea."
"me either."
"let's go to bed, the sun's about to come up."
"good morning."
"good night."
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