All I know are tiny heart-shaped dreams, pastel and chalky and melting on my tongue before I can forget how they taste, before I can remember what they say.
I can feel the weight of the new year, heavy on my chest like your arm in the grey morning before you can remember I'm with you. Eleven and a half full-to-bursting ripe months sitting on top of my lungs waiting to be bitten into — a year waiting for me to shake it and wake it up, waiting to pull me back down to bed.
There is a way your body fits exactly around mine — I may be the most tactile person I could be because my body cannot forget you now. There is a way your body fits exactly around mine and it is the same way January curls up in the crook of my legs and the same way your laugh floats into the air and the goddamn same way your hand feels on my throat.
I know these tiny heart-shaped dreams but you are a splash of liquor chasing any lingering bits of dusty sweetness from my tongue and doesn't that just make me want you more?
The new year is wrapping its hand into my hair getting ready to pull, while yours is on my throat — fuck ready, here we are.