Exist

by Charissa Pereira

Some things we just don’t have enough language for. 

Like people, 

and their souls, 

and their eyes 

and what beats behind them. 

I despise being limited by a 26 letter alphabet and the different patterns and couplings

we give the letters 

to make these words that oh so often fail me. 

God I wish there was a word for what happens when skin meets soul instead of flesh.

A word for when lips kiss the bones instead of skin.

A way to explain how sitting next to you on a soft, broken couch

in a non-air-conditioned café near Columbia 

satiated every desire both my mind

and my body had ever longed for 

between a man and a woman.

I was reading CS Lewis and you were learning Russian. 

And I could go into why you were 

but this moral of the story isn’t wasted on any of the tiny details 

except if they’re about the way your smile grazed the side of my neck 

as I washed the dishes we used 

after the dinner you cooked for me.

is there a way to describe the experience of leaning against a wall

staring and taking you in as you’re cooking

in an apartment that’s not yours?

Because nothings yours.

You don’t have anything here. 

And you’re leaving in 2 weeks.

And you don’t own anything.

And you don’t need to bring any of this place to the next one.

And you’re not mine. 

And I don’t own anything here either.

And I can’t keep you.

And I lean and I ask, and I listen, 

and you sing, 

and you cook,

and you make.

And you’re older, but you’re young.

And your eyelashes are blonde 

and your body is broken from years in Syria.

But your eyes are alive as they drink me in 

as I lean, 

and I ask 

and I wonder.

You see every curve, but you don’t stare,

you weren’t raised that way Oklahoma.

And for once I actually want someone to.

To stare at me.

Am I talking too much? Asking too many questions?

That umbrella near your feet balanced in the corner, is it going to fall?

Am I going to fall?

And the dishes are done and you’re standing in the middle of the kitchen

and you’re waiting,

and you’re so patient,

Because you’re still learning.

Your gentleness has tamed your lust which now sits behind a question

that you only ask with your eyes.

Can I kiss you?

And we know that look, that sweet, simple gaze that men get

when their words have run out because they’re captured

and they’re smiling about it.

And their hands want to know more.

And so I met you. 

In the center.

Of that sticky hot kitchen in July.

Drunk silly on the scent of perfectly cooked salmon and your minty shampoo

my arms up on your shoulders, 

softly sitting on your worn t-shirt,

watching you 

watch my lips, 

come closer.

And I’d tell you what happened next, but those words…

They don’t exist quite yet.