A Small List of Things I Want to Forget About by Lindsey Hobart

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A Small List of Things I Want to Forget About

It was the summer of
kissing shoulder blades
under oak trees and running water
and keeping our mouths so messy
we couldn’t fit the word love
between our teeth,
only behind eyelids that shook
in broken sleep
and we’ll call that the distance
between us.
An arm’s reach,
or the hesitation between
two people across the bar
at a party,
or a telephone,
or the gear shift,
or a white sheet in the empty room
where I buried my face in your neck
that August and said, “Let’s stay here
a while, watch September turn to Fall.”
It was childhood bedroom innocence,
the barn where you used to smoke,
your family photo albums,
and then bruising my body against yours
on your mother’s couch
and we’ll call this longing:
your hands in my hair,
mine around your neck,
the way hips move in a dark
room, always lit by a broken tv
and your body all smoke and scar
and breathing heavy,
my hand pinned to the bedsheets
soaked in sweat and spilled wine.
I dug my name into your backbone
but didn’t get to call you mine.

Lindsey Hobart

Lindsey Hobart is an 18 year-old writer, dreamer, and sometimes-guitarist. Her work has appeared in Canvas Lit, Glass Kite Anthology, The Rising Phoenix Review, Germ Magazine, and others. When she isn’t writing or pretending she has musical talent, you can find her in a seedy hipster cafe reading Bukowski and yelling about capitalism.