Wanting

in july, you said i was changing. good, i thought. the grass was warm on my cheeks. not going anywhere. reminiscent of a dream where you reached out, brushed the hair from my face, said you remembered now and wanted me again. always the same dream. we can’t explain the ways we move each other, how we change skins under the sun, sometimes shed them. how we open up like sores. to fascinate. repulse. the world makes us and keeps us that way. there is nowhere to go, but we somehow arrive. our desires take us to the place that shimmers, ripens like fruit. even now, the grass is still warm. my comb pulses with want, a strand of hair caught in its teeth.