He had this freckle on his left hip. Yeah, this one stuck out a little more than the others on him. I remember pulling back the elastic to kiss it once while he slept. I am not sure why I did? Though, at the time, I would have kissed every freckle, every whisker, every wrinkle on him. Who was he to make me want to kiss his birthmarks? To make me notice those blemishes and still want him the way I did. He was different in a way that made me see, that made me tastes things in a whole new way. With him, I would just hold him there on my tongue, as if he were a piece of peppered jerky. He’d somehow turned me into this woman, yet, small child who’d been handed a lemon for the first time. I was suddenly exposed to the cold, wet and sour all at once. This is the kind of love we look for, or we should anyways. He was the kind of love you hang on to, even when it finally spits in your face. When it leaves all your parts aching like a child with leg cramps. Who the fuck was he to have made me feel that way?
“Who I Am, Without You” © 2017 Joelly C Scheff