During hot Australian afternoons, kangaroos move into whatever shade they can find and lick their wrists to stay cool. The evaporating saliva cools the blood vessels near the surface of their skin.
[If your skin had become my earth, your mouth my ocean, your body creating the shade I moved in, we could have spent time there, in the afternoon heat, your tongue wetting my wrists, keeping me cool despite the fires you were setting between my thighs. Instead, your fingers inside me were just a forced necessity, a formality born of the way our natures had adapted to the shit environment we'd created between us over the years.
Inhospitable. Our bodies going on without us, somehow unaware of the barrenness of intentions, the hollowness of our movements. Reminding me of post-apocalyptic literature: picturing your eyes as the cause of both a destructive and a desolate future; the equal opportunists of the right sort of sincerity, left to your own devices. If we were it, all that was left, what could we save? The distance is too great between the fiction of saving you and the reality of not needing to. Our land was a desert lacking all the words I wanted you to say to me. But still containing your wife, most of the time.
I always assumed you were naturally warm--not a person to care for electric blankets, hot tea, fireplaces, updated furnaces, friction, reactions, chemical or unpredictable--keeping us around for comfort, not out of need. Maybe you were warm, but in temperature, not in kind. And baby, wasn't the warmth of my mouth the place you were best familiar with anyway? Is that a warmth we can count as heat? Hot enough to warrant slick forearms and evaporated spit? You have always been too cool to keep me to yourself.
Your hands on my hips, my fondness for complicated goodbyes, your looks across the table, my inability to make it up to you, your questions on what I thought of your work, my preoccupation with someone new, our willingness to leave one another alone and unsafe.
And we stopped saying, "I love you." So what? This wasn't love; even marsupials know you hold the ones you love inside you.]