Andrea Maxine Recto
LOVE WAS HERE
In my terracotta-tiled kitchen where you showed me
how to peel a ripe, yellow peach. The air was thick
and warm as tiny beads of sweat formed
above your delicate, dark brows. Your nipples protruded
underneath your beige linen top as the thin, damp fabric clung
to your breasts, and I didn’t know
where to look. Underneath my skin, the heat bursting
when you touched me for the first time and I cried,
flushed and confused that pleasure could just be sweet. I hoped
you still wanted me after that.
In the workshed behind my father’s farm, mosquitos feasting
on the backs of our arms and necks as the smell
of maple wood, cowhide, and decaying fruit mingled
with our sweat and sex. Behind your sad eyes when I finally confessed
you spoke a language I wasn’t ready to learn.
Inside every angry promise I made after you left:
that I’d know what to do the next time love wanted to bloom in my chest.