Organs
There is a small disclaimer written underneath my tongue. And I show it to every woman that tells me their name or shakes my hand. Two-point font. Barely legible.
It reads:
We’ve met and now you are reading the underside of my tongue. No, this didn’t hurt. But it hurts to keep my tongue up like this, so hurry up.
Tonight things will happen. We may part or we may end up in the bed of a stranger. Come morning, nothing will be in focus, except skin still warm with sweat.
Just know that when we laugh or sing or get drunk or fuck or fight or leave each other for months at a time, my mind is sharp and I never forget anyone, no matter how hard I try.
You will slide off this tongue. More than once, if I’m lucky.
And it might hurt to read or to wake up. Your name may change and we may change, but this never will.
If you end up as nothing more than a sentence in a notebook, or a line in a song, just know that you have touched my life and whether you want to or not, living forever through ink is something you have no control over.
Congratulations on etching yourself into my life.
The hardest part, is always getting back to the point where I can remember explicit detail. Remembering diction or how a glass is held. How teeth look during a laugh. When the things I say hurt the most. What keeps a person latched to my puppeteer strings.
It’s so hard to remember. Digging deep takes time and patience. And I always remember and I always carry a shovel.
