Lapping up memory

We hadn't bothered to turn on the lights.

You backed me up until I hit the wall, kissing me.

You kissed my chest. You kissed strings down my arm. You kissed my grey hands. I watched you.

I thought, I always wanted to be with the person who laps up every inch. You pressed your lips on every finger pad to inhale as much of my spirit as your lungs could take. Then you made your way back up my arm, and I was there with my face waiting for you.

At some point along the path of forever, your ghost started to move away, at a slow shutter speed. Then it stirred down the hallway, into the next room, where something solid of you sat firmly on the stool and banged on the snare drum behind a drum set and a golden cymbal. When I lose my father behind the drum set, he bites his lip and squints his eyes. I can't remember your concentrated-drum-playing-expression, but I know you had one.

I swam through the noise. I went back to the dark living room to grab a conga drum. I dragged it down the hallway. I dragged it into the brightly lit room, where you were crashing on the flickering golden cymbal. You gave me a nod and a smile when you saw that I had dragged in the conga drum. Later, you would say, "Most girls would just be annoyed. But you grabbed your own drum." I was tired, and it was all noise, but I beat it and tuned my head into the banter. I tried to insert myself into the beats, until you were spent. But by then I soaked into the noise and the bright lights like a ball rolling down a hill. It wasn't until you faced me and said you were done that I slowly staggered up.

But I
was still
there,
at the wall.

My silhouette had stuck there. The blades of my back, the backs of my hands, and the tips of my heels had half-melted to the wall like a plastic bowl accidentally left leaning against the hot microwave.

And now. The drum set is sold, that house has been demolished, and you are miles and miles away.

But I am still there. 3 months later.
I am a
silhouette
sprawled against the wall,
watching fingers lap up
your lips.
Finger by finger, as
if
to count how many fingers make up forever.