Conditional When I see someone with whom I trusted my body, once or often, it remembers him. The patterns he bit into my chest redden again, bruises blossom on my back, and all of me hums with the touch of his hands— a fist knotted in my hair, a palm heavy on my thigh —resting in mine while we slept. As we share drinks or make room for one another between tourists and businessmen on the sidewalk, I wonder if his scalp stings where my lips left hushed noises, blood wells where my fingernails caught, or his hands remember where I am soft. And, if they’d forgotten, If they’d like to learn again
-Published in Litterae Magazine, Issue 2.