It started with your smile,
that sideways, sinful smirk,
a promise wrapped in denim shorts,
barefoot on the kitchen tile.
The bag was small. The world was big.
I chewed earth, tasted Jah,
swallowed dirt and sky,
and all the bad decisions hiding in your fridge.
We laid back on the floor,
ceiling fan spinning like the planet’s last stand,
your fingers tracing stars on my arm
as the walls began to breathe.
And oh, you were beautiful,
glowing, laughing, lips like lit fuses,
eyes wide enough to swallow every lie I’d ever told.
But then,
the wave hit.
A tsunami of too-much
crashing into my chest,
my stomach clenching
like a fist around a secret.
You said, “Ride it out, baby,”
but I was already drowning,
sweat pouring, heartbeat drumming
a frantic war inside my ribs.
And then,
oh, Jah
the heave, the surge,
a volcanic eruption
right across that nice clean floor.
Your mouth a perfect O,
the kind I’d dreamed of for months,
now shaped in horror as I painted you
in the colors of regret and undigested sin.
We sat in the wreckage,
you quiet, me apologizing through sobs and snot,
and somewhere between shame and laughter
you kissed my forehead,
said,
“Next time, we’ll start smaller.”
And I loved you harder in that ruined moment
than I ever did in the good ones.