Ani Smith

His smell impregnates her. He just smells too much like boy for her to be still when he's around. Her torso is full of his hair and his dirty arms stretch downward to knuckle her kneecaps. He's inside of her.
She has inhalants to mask the effect, tries to drown her toes in alcohol but they wiggle out. Whether for strength or form, her eyes are on him. She thinks his poetry makes babies. She sinks her nose into his skin.
When he makes his morning ceremony she evaporates in the ritual tea and smoke. Her heart is bent double with the weight of him. She floats outside herself. Tries not to smile. She digs her fingers into his toast.
She thinks about puppies and the shape of their paws and their smell. She can't be still. He's inside her. She thinks about the tongues of puppies, about their waggle. She wants to roll in the tall green grass. She wants puppies to lick her. She feels sexy and wrong.
In the night his body is tough and unmovable and love hangs dry from his feet. She watches how he doesn't seem to ache. The bears on his arm look up at him smiling. He's perfect, she and the bears think. They all think he's perfect.
In the morning he is empty and she hollows. Mornings and nights become the only parts of days. He's there when he's not and he's not there when he isn't and sometimes when he is. He becomes unfathomable. His sweat drenches her hair. When he speaks her mouth swells with his tongue.
She ties herself into knots onto his laces and tries to braid herself into his hair but the back of her neck ices over and her fingers become numb.