Poetry: Bristling Lovers

The drip echoes in the tiled room.

I try to ignore the hard round edge of the glass that digs into my back,

and focus on you opposite me.

We are both perfectly still, just the way they left us.

I swallow.

I long to slip towards you,

To lean against you,

the way you used to lean against me.

But we’re stuck, rubber against porcelain.

I can tell you want me too, from the way your slender body drips with moisture—

Sweat or tears or spit.

We liked it better under the counter,

where the shadows hid the slime.

You would smack into my head and the very fibres of our being

would bristle against each other,

Mint and muck foaming together.

The more we tried to fit, the more our edges frayed,

stuck out at odd angles.

But it was only by finding our way into each other’s murky crevices

that we’d merge as if we’d only ever been one.

Now they lift me out, away from you.

They do this daily; take each of us like we’re common objects,

able to be used at will.

I stand soldier straight and do what they ask,

if only to have a chance to come back to you.

They make me brush up on their picket fence lifestyle

At least I can see they’re not as pearly as they seem.

For once, they fumble.

I fall back on you.

For a moment it’s like it was.

It doesn’t matter if that’s your minty saliva or mine.

They pull us apart,

muttering about how we shouldn’t mix,

complaining about our frayed ends.

But who wants a perfect fit anyway?

They lean me opposite you,

The round edge hard in my back.

The drip echoes.