I’m sure I sleep with my mouth open because when I wake I can taste you in my stomach and there are small pieces of you in between my teeth.
Did you know that when you sleep, spiders and cockroaches can crawl into your ears, your nose and down your throat?
Before I close my eyes at night I think about the day and the universe and all of the things I have to be grateful for and I rarely think of you anymore because it hurts. I’m not thankful for that pain.
It’s been a long time since we drew faces in the sand and played games with each other and shared words and rhythm and hope.
But you’re still here.
You’re in my stomach and my heart and you’re crawling in and out of my throat, getting stuck sometimes, making it difficult for me to get the words out and the newness in.
You’re a familiar taste, a little bitter and a lot moreish and you seep through my tongue, spreading and sitting stubbornly.
You are a stain on my tongue.
When I shower in the morning, I brush my teeth and spit it out and brush again to be sure and I open my mouth and let the strong jets of water spray into my mouth, onto my tongue, along the sides of my gums, trying to rid you.
But it’s too late. You have crawled inside of me at night through the doorway of dreams and you hang around for longer than you know you should and we kiss and talk and roll around in yesterdays and tomorrows.
And somehow it feels so unfinished.
I flicked something out from in between my teeth this morning and there it was; another thought, another piece of you and I’m sure it’s the last of it all and I forget about you and promise myself that it doesn’t matter and the taste doesn’t exist and I brush and rinse and spit and rinse again.
And then someone mentions your name.