Pressed
I still carry the rose you threw at me on our first date after I said fuck chivalry. It’s pressed between the first art journal we filled together. Some days I sit and think about the aroma of your aura, hazelnut coffee mixed with whiskey on your breath. Some nights I lie exhausted burning from the toll of the grind and my sheets become soaked but not in the same manner as from the drip of your brow. Tonight I’ll lay in bed, glass of wine and in n out, street classy, while I stare at the moleskin propped open on the mattress. I’ll write along the lines and leave blank spaces for you to fill with your drawings. Some nights I smear ink with my emotions and I remember the times we cuddled side by side and I wrote stories while you drew the illustrations to accompany my narrative. Tonight I give my head a rest and read from Freud naked in bed.