we will make it

by chris.

i was baked into the lining of your coat, stitched into the wool and
clutching your belly and breasts. i swished as you walked and shivered
when the cold wind blew your coat open.

"hold me tighter," i said. "up against you. please, we're both cold."

you pulled the coat tighter around yourself, hugging your form,
and we swished together. you had not said anything to me since we left
our apartment.

"are you mad?" i asked.

you didn't answer, you just kept walking. my face was pressed right
into your belly so i figured my voice had been muffled. i tickled you
with my tongue so you'd stop pressing me up against you.

"what?" you asked. "don't do that."

"are you mad?"

"why would i be?"

"i don't know..." we swished and you looked away from me. "i love
you, you know."

you shook your head. "you are lining. you are incapable of love."

"shutup." i reached for you and you pulled me tight around your body.
we got to the bus and you sat down, opening up your coat.

"thanks," i said.

"for what?"

"for opening your coat, so i can breath easier."

"that's not why i opened it."

"oh," i said. we sat there for a while. "then why did you open it?"

you rolled your eyes. "i don't like you mashed up against my boob
like that. it's creepy."

and that's what it had come to. you now wanted to keep me away from
your body, from your "boob." i thought it was your belly!

"i was mashed into your belly," i said.

"i know the difference between my boob and my belly."

i gave it up. you are incorrigible! i try to keep you warm, to keep you
happy, but it never makes you happy. you always hate me.

i wrote that down for you when we got back to our apartment. you laid
the coat and me down on the bed. you read it and we made love with the tv
on, in the soft glow of sitcoms.

"i'll always love you," you said.

"i'll never leave you," i said.

back to me