is the path i take to a lover’s house in the middle of the night. is when i get home safe. is the clean cut of nicotine after you’ve gone to bed. is when i loved you in the back of your mother’s car, i pulled your body into mine and you said you loved me. is most of the loves i’ve had, right? that’s what that is? is that lovely feeling. i love you, what a lovely feeling. she’s so beautiful, what a lovely feeling. full moon and i whisper your name to the ashes, what a lovely feeling.
isn’t any number of poems i forward to your school address. isn’t what i promise i can give to you. isn’t driving home from the hospital three towns over, undoing myself in her car.
is the name our children will call me. is your pretty face between my knees. is the classics that you fall asleep to. is cigarettes. god i would love to smoke a pack a day, would love to have an addiction that isn’t yours.
isn’t when you woke up in my arms and asked me for her name. isn’t her name. isn’t my teeth digging into your shoulder. isn’t your shoulder. isn’t my slippered feet drifting up the stairs to bring you your cup of coffee. isn’t the promise you wake up to. isn’t the promise that i press into your sleep-stained skin.
is a man’s touch. is your fingers in my mouth. is lukewarm coffee, some things i can’t endure.
Frances Sharples is a junior English major at SUNY Geneseo and the editor-in-chief of The Lamron and Iris Magazine. Despite their overcommitment to and enthusiasm regarding a ridiculous number of things, it could be argued that all they truly care about is snacks, Wordle, and Dora Jar.