postscript

diary of a sappy sapphic quarante. she/they. canada

[letters-to-moss]

a kiss from her isn’t just a kiss, it’s a binding. breath traded like vows.

two nervous systems striking flint, and heat gathering where language fails.

there are kisses that ask, and there are kisses that take.

and sometimes you don’t realize you’ve been claimed until you’re already under it.

sealed with a kiss is a spell.

letters to moss

[letters-to-moss]

if the lace doesn’t reach you, what is it for-- the wanting, or me?

letters to moss

[letters-to-moss]

i am discovering how much of myself exists only when witnessed.

that knowledge is not free.

letters to moss

[letters-to-moss]

I don’t resent you. I resent the quiet negotiations inside my body, the way I’ve learned to hold my hunger so I don’t devour you

the way I’ve learned to hold my breath.

letters to moss

[letters-to-moss]

eros feels like cracked ribs and restraint, the breath held in-- both are sharp in my chest.

letters to moss

[letters-to-moss]

from my eyes, hands, and mouth a dotted line-- hesitant, apologetic, reaching for places you no longer want touched or tasted.

i pull myself back, remembering the iron is hot after it has stoked the fire-- how pain teaches the body before the mind knows to yield.

letters to moss

[letters-to-moss]

there is no shortage of love, and that’s the wound.

letters to moss

[letters-to-moss]

do you feel it too-- the fear that comes with having everything?

letters to moss

[letters-to-moss]

i was the garden after a long winter bare, unexpectant.

then you came with your hands full of seeds, and we made spring. letters to moss

[letters-to-moss]

you found me closed-- a night bloom waiting.

now i open only to the dark you make gentle.

letters to moss

[letters-to-moss]

in the quiet, magic hums low; the candle’s hitched breath, wax sighing down its spine, not all spells need words.

letters to moss

[letters-to-moss]

nothing holy ever shouts; it confesses in moans against my mouth.

letters to moss

[letters-to-moss]

ripe, dripping

as if eden and the underworld

were the same mouth,

open

and waiting.

letters to moss

[letters-to-moss]

all dogs go to heaven

body of christ i say, and toss the ritz. the dogs believe i chew my doubt.

letters to moss

[letters-to-moss]

desire is a cruel geography. i draw a map of you and die of thirst at your border.

letters to moss

[letters-to-moss]

you are an oasis i am parched

desire

the space between.

letters to moss

[letters-to-moss]

my thirst learns your name before my lips do

letters to moss