no touching

our lips were separate countries;
the space between them when we paused and lingered barely touching was the ocean that he tried to cross in order to understand how deep my sadness sank
he dragged his fingertips along the ridges of seven bracelets I had stacked against my right wrist to hide all the times I could not cope
he painted nebulas on my shoulders and drew galaxies from my neck with his mouth, the kinds of bruises that let you know your skin is real, your skin was touched
teeth collided and I felt less lonely at the sound because we were connected at the roots
his thumb stroking my cheek
This poem is about: 
Me

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