tell me a story

communion

Tell me a story, I say when the storm subsides and quiet waves lap the shore. 

(Did you ever catch fireflies?) 

Tell me a story, I say with my head on his chest. 

(Do you like the smell of vanilla and the taste of chocolate?)

Tell me a story, I say in the dark. 

(When did you last sip honeysuckle?)

 

I ask on the exhale and hear his stillness. 

(Can you do a flip turn in the pool?)

Heartbeat. 

(Are you scared of sharks?)

Heartbeat. 

(Do you believe in coincidences?)

Deep inhale. 

(Do you like burnt marshmallows?)

Full exhale.

(Have you ever eaten a BLT with fresh tomatoes and so much mayo 

that you leaned over the sink to eat it?)

 

A story, he says. What kind of story?

(Who taught you to ride a bike?)

I don’t know any stories. 

(Did you cry when you read Where the Red Fern Grows?)

 

Inhale. Exhale. 

(Can you find Moldova on a map?)

 

I watch my hand resting on his chest. 

(Can you drive a stick shift?)

I stretch my fingers.

(Can you curl your tongue?)

I make a fist.

(Do you like butter pecan ice cream?)

I stretch my fingers.

(Did you ever find a four-leaf clover?)

 

Heartbeat.

(Did you ever fail a math test?)

Inhale. Exhale.

(Do you think Wed-nes-day when you write Wednesday?) 

 

I sit up, lean down, and kiss him for an inhale 

exhale 

inhale 

exhale. 

 

I lie next to him again. 

 

His breathing slows. I turn over in our silence.